A Man Called Milo Morai

XI

The German counteroffensive of December 1944 was stopped, of course, crushed under the tank treads of General George Patton’s Third Army, bombed and strafed incessantly by Allied air power and driven back with over 200,000 casualties. The so-called Battle of the Bulge quickly became history.

While Charlie Company was dug in on the eastern bank of the Rhine River, at Remagen, helping to hold that precious span from recapture by the Wehrmacht, Milo received orders to report back to battalion headquarters. He found there a jeep and driver waiting to transport him farther back, to division headquarters. Ushered into a warm, dry building and given a chair, he promptly fell asleep.

When at last he sat across the polished desk from Jethro, savoring his glass (real glass, cut and faceted) of cognac, he became unpleasantly aware of the fetid odor —compounded of wet, dirty woolens, gun oil, foul breath and flesh long unwashed—of himself.

As if reading his mind, Jethro said, “Finish your drink, Milo, and Sergeant Webber in there will drive you over to my quarters. You can have a bath and a shave, Webber will trim your hair—and he does it well, too-then he’ll take your clothes out and burn them. There’s a full kit waiting for you in one of the lockers there, boots too. Then you can rest or sleep for what’s left of today. If you want anything else, just tell Webber. We’ll have dinner tonight, and I have to talk to you about some things. I need a promise from you.”

When he was as clean as hot water, GI soap, a GI handbrush, a GI toothbrush and GI tooth powder could render him, Milo used one of Jethro’s matched set of razors and shaving cream to take off the stubble that had been well on the way to becoming a real beard. Before dressing, he had the most solicitous Sergeant Webber take off most of his just-washed but still-shaggy hair, leaving a half-inch or less overall.

The clothing left for his use looked like GI issue, but a mere handling established that it was not, it was of far better quality—the mesh of the jockstrap felt like and looked like silk, the shorts and undershirt were of an incredibly soft cotton, and, although certainly of wool, the long Johns and the padded boot socks were almost as soft and unscratchy as the cotton.

Before he could even start to dress, however, Sergeant Webber, armed with a can of DDT powder and other assorted paraphernalia, said, “Uh, sir, don’t you think you should oughta let me go over your body for lice? It won’t none on your head, but that don’t prove nothing, of course.”

“You’re more than welcome to try, Webber,” agreed Milo, “but it’s a waste of your time. The critters don’t seem to like me, for some reason, never have. Nor do fleas, either.”

The noncom wrinkled up his brows. He did not want to call the officer a liar to his face, but that he did not believe him was abundantly clear. “Uhh, captain, sir, you better let me check anyhow, huh? Typhus ain’t nuthin’ to fuck around with. The Krauts is dyin’ of it right and left, and so was the fuckin’ Belgians and Dutch and Frogs, too.”

The well-meaning sergeant still was shaking his head and muttering to himself in utter consternation at finding no lice or any other kind of parasites on Milo’s body as he stuffed the worn, filthy, discarded clothing into what looked like an old gunny sack. But as he reached the door, he turned back to Milo.

“Sir, if you’re hungry, the gen’rul said I should go over to the mess and bring you back anything you wants, so what’ll it be, sir? Roast beef? Po’k chops? Sumthin’ else?”

His mind fixed on the neat, tightly made GI bunk in the next room, Milo replied, “Thank you, sergeant, but no, what I need is sleep, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing before you get that jeep out there started. If you want to stop by and drop off a can of Spam and some C-ration crackers, that will be fine; I might even wake up long enough to eat them.”

A look of sympathy and solicitude entered the sergeant’s gray eyes. “It must be pure hell up there where you come from, sir. Here, sir.” He fumbled out an almost-full pack of Camels. “The gen’rul, he don’t smoke nuthin’ but a pipe, now, and I noticed you ain’t got but one or two left in that pack of Chesterfields.”

“Thank you, Webber,” said Milo, then asked, “You’re not a Regular, are you?”

The noncom grinned and shook his head. “Nosir, not me. I was in the CCC for near on three years when the fuckin’ Japs come to bomb Pearl Harbor; that’s when I ‘listed up and went to drivin’ school at Fort Eustis. But I likes the Army—I gets three squares mosta the time, a place to sleep, good clothes and shoes to wear and sixty dollars a month besides. I don’t think I could do that good as a civilian, sir, so I means to stay in after the war’s over, and the gen’rul says he thinks as how I oughta, too. Does the captain think I oughta? I knows you and the gen’rul was sergeants together in the Reg”lars, back before the war, so you oughta know.”

Milo nodded. “Yes, Sergeant Webber, I agree with the general. I think you’ll make a fine professional soldier.”

Milo came fully awake suddenly, with the knowledge that there was another person in the room with him, moving quietly, sounding too light to be Jethro or Webber. The light steps seemed to be approaching the bunk on which he lay. Looking out into the near-darkness through slitted eyelids, Milo sent his fingers questing to find the hilt of the knife strapped to his right thigh. With as little motion as possible, he drew out the honed length of steel blade, took a good grip on the tape-wrapped hilt and then waited, tensely, for whatever was to happen next.

A presence hovered above him for a few heartbeats of time, then receded, and he half wondered if this was only a waking-dream sequence, for all that he knew it to be very real. The bright white glare of light that burst through the briefly opened door to the outer room made it impossible for him to see anything much of the short person who exited and then drew shut the portal. But by straining his ears, he could hear the low-voiced conversation in the other room, and he could even identify one of the speakers, all of whom were conversing in Parisian French.

“He sleeps, M’sieu General. I was about to waken him, but thought that I first should ask you.”

Jethro’s voice replied, “You were wiser than you realized, m’petite. Had you laid hand to him he might very well have killed or at least crippled you.”

“This Captaine Milo Moray, he is so much a brute, then?” inquired a second, less husky female voice. “The general should have mentioned this thing earlier.”

“No, no, Angelique, he is a good man, a very good man, a true gentleman. It is only that he has been almost without any hiatus in combat since last year. And, ma cherie, one never should be so unwise as to awaken a man fresh from active warfare suddenly and unexpectedly in a darkened room.”

The woman called Angelique still sounded unconvinced. “It might be wise if we were to not waken him, mon general, for our Nicole is too precious, too vulnerable, to become the toy of some brutal and uncaring man. She is a gentle girl, convent-reared, and despite all that was wrought upon her by the Boches, all that I have taught her since, she still is far from hardness. No, mon general, I will give you back your gold and you will please to send Nicole and me back to Paris.”

“You are of a wrongness, Angelique,” sighed Jethro, “and I am surprised that you will not believe me on this matter, for I have never lied to you about anything. Have I? But I will make you a proposition: I will awaken Captain Moray and then introduce Nicole to him. We will leave them alone, and should he offer her any violence at all, I will double the gold I gave you and immediately have you both taken back to Paris. Is that agreeable, Angelique?”

There was more conversation after that, but Milo had once more sunk into sleep. When next he opened his eyes, the room was flooded with the white light of a gasoline lantern and Jethro was shaking the bunk and saying, “Milo? Milo! Come on, old buddy, come out of it. It’s me, Jethro. Wake up and have some champagne.”

Fifteen minutes later, Milo sat cross-legged on the head of the bunk, twirling his empty champagne glass between his fingers, watching the slim young woman who sat stiffly on the foot of the bunk, sipping at her own glass and puffing nervously at a Camel, carefully avoiding his gaze or at least refusing to meet it. From the other room could be heard an unclear mutter of conversation and squeakings from the bunk that had apparently been moved in while Milo slept. In the light of the lantern, he could see that she was pale, her dark eyes were enormous, her breathing was fast and her hands very tremulous.

He leaned a bit toward her and extended a hand. She flinched from his touch, then returned her body to its former position, clearly steeling herself for whatever. But Milo sat back and spoke to her softly in French.

“Nicole, you need have no fear of me. I have been many long months without a woman, but it has not killed me, nor will I be injured by further abstinence. Had Jethro not brought you in to me, I still would be sleeping, and I can easily go back to sleep still, for I am very weary. I do not even need the bed; you may have it for the rest of this night. The floor is carpeted—just let me take one blanket and I will be fine. I am not really accustomed to such luxury as this anymore.”

He was as good as his word. Taking a last long drag, he stumped out his cigarette, then rolled off the bunk, taking a GI blanket with him. When he had turned down the lantern as low as he could without extinguishing it altogether, he removed the seat cushion from the chair, found a section of carpet that looked good, lay down and wrapped himself in the blanket and presently was softly snoring.

Not until she was certain that the strange officer was truly asleep did Nicole Gallion even begin to relax. She now knew that all of this had been a grave mistake, that she never should have let the worldly-wise Angelique talk her into essaying such a thing, no matter how much the general had offered to pay. Angelique had reassured her over and over on the way from Paris how easy it would be to earn her share of the gold sovereigns. She said that she had acquaintances who had known and done business with the general twenty years ago, before the war, who said that he was a very rich man and generous.

But now she knew that she could not go through with it, any of it. Not even for the vast number of francs that the gold and cigarettes would bring could she force herself to do this thing. She would just have to try to find some other way to provide for Papa—poor Papa, once so big and strong and vital, now all twisted and bent, crippled and blinded by the savageries of the Gestapo, yet still too proud to accept the charities of his fellow countrymen.

She did not want to disrobe, but reflected that as she had but the one presentable dress it were best not to sleep in it. In search of a hanger for her garment, she eased open the door of a narrow wardrobe and found a man’s silken robe, far too big and long for her, of course, but it would serve as a fine sleeping garment.

The girl quickly removed her slip of American parachute silk, hung it beside the dress and, now covered in gooseflesh, slipped into the smooth, soft robe and padded over to the disarrayed bunk with its promise of thick blankets, not even thinking of extinguishing the lantern. As she slid under the sheet and blankets, she encountered a long, hard object. In wonderment, she drew the length of razor-sharp, needle-tipped, blue steel from out its rigid case, tested edge and point, then returned it to its case with the hint of a smile. Snuggling against herself, the knife close to her small hand, she settled for sleep.

The moans and whimperings brought Milo out of his sleep. His first thought was, “Oh, God, who’s been wounded now?” Then, “Why the hell didn’t they turn the poor bastard over to the fuckin’ pill-pushers instead of bringing him down here into the CP bunker?”

The moans and whimperings continued unabated. He rolled over and sat up, looking in the direction from which the pitiful sounds were emanating. He wondered for a moment where he was and who the young girl on the bunk was, her pale face twisted, with tears squeezing out from beneath her closed eyelids, shaking all over, shaking hard, like a foundered horse. Just as he remembered, the girl began to speak, both in French and in halting, schoolbook German.

“Oh, no, no, no, please, I beg of you, do not hurt him anymore. Oh, please, mein Herr Hauptsturmfiihrer, for the love of God, he knows nothing of the things you are asking, neither of us do, we are not the people you seem to think we are.

“Oh, no, no, please, NO!” The last word was screamed, shrilly. The girl sat straight up in bed, her teary eyes wide open, the look in them compounded of infinite horror, her small hands clenched so tightly at her sides that red blood was welling up over the nails.

Before Milo could move, the door burst open and a nude woman stormed in, her red hair wildly disheveled, her step firm as her jouncing breasts, and blood in her eye. “You pig,” she snarled, “what are you doing to her? What …”

Her voice trailed off as she noticed the widely separated sleeping arrangements.

“I didn’t touch her, Angelique,” said Milo, concern patent in his voice. “I haven’t laid one hand on her all night. I was asleep long before she was, over here. I told her she could have the bunk.” “Then what … ?” Angelique began. Milo shook his head. “A nightmare, I’d presume. She woke me up moaning and whimpering and pleading with someone in French and in German. She was begging some man not to hurt some other man was all that I could understand.”

Jethro, just as unabashedly nude as Angelique, came in then, saying, “I think you might have chosen better than you did at the sum I’m paying you, my dear. Why did you choose to bring this strange creature?”

The red-haired woman sighed and sank into the now-cushionless chair. “I brought her because she needs the money, needs it desperately. Except for the … the things that were done upon her by the Boches, in prison, where I first met her, she is an utter innocent. She was born to a class in which no trades ever are taught, so how else but this way could she support her father, who is now all the family she has left and is blind and crippled from being severely tortured by the Gestapo who suspected him of activities connected with the Resistance?

“They did the worst things to him in front of her, forced her to watch … and to listen, the beasts. That was most probably her nightmare, living once again that night of hell, the poor child.”

While they had been speaking, Nicole had slowly sunk back down onto the bunk and was once more breathing rhythmically, clearly sound asleep.

In the outer room, all three of them wrapped in OD field shirts until the hard coal that Jethro had dumped into the space heater had time to get started, Milo, Jethro and Angelique sipped at a mixture of cognac and champagne and nibbled at cold Spam and C-ration crackers.

When he had gotten his pipe going, Jethro said, “Milo, I’m sorry about all of this. I only was trying to help you get your ashes hauled tonight, since I doubted you’d been laid since you left England last June; and going without that long at a stretch can lead to recurrent bouts of stiffness in the neck … among other places.”

Milo shook his head. “In a way, I’m just as glad it all worked out this way, Jethro, because I’d have felt like some kind of animal if I’d found out about all this after I’d screwed that kid in there.”

Switching effortlessly to French in order to be certain that she understood, he said, “Angelique, the general will pay you two the full amount. As I told Nicole earlier, I reelaly need sleep far worse than I need sex, just now. I’ll just go back to that spot of nice, soft carpet and get back to it; if you’re worried about my sincerity, leave the door open and the light lit so you can see the bunk and her.”

Turning back to Stiles, he said, “And that girl has more than enough problems, it sounds like, without having to try to whore to take care of her father. Do you recall those stocks that my late friend in Chicago bought with the money I left him? I told you of them and you had me place them in your safe at the farm.”

At Stiles’ nod, he went on, “Well, what would you say they’re worth now? That is, how much would you be willing or able to pay me for them, if you knew the money was to go to Nicole and her father?”

“I am not at all conversant with the current market, Milo,” said Stiles dryly. “But when last I had the time and the opportunity, I think they were worth in the neighborhood of two thousand or two thousand five. Yes, I’ll buy them from you, if that’s what you wish.”

To Angelique, Stiles said, “Do you understand, m’petite? The captain has just sold to me certain personal possessions and has ordered that the monies be paid to Nicole, that she no more will lack of the means to care properly for her father. It will come to some sixty ounces of gold, or the equivalent in francs, pounds sterling or American dollars. Do you still think the captain to be a callous, unfeeling brute, Angelique?”

Despite Milo’s protests that he would be comfortable with just his carpet bed, Stiles opened a storage room, brought out one of several rolled-up mattresses and another blanket and a pillow, then helped to spread them in the place chosen by his friend.

“I always keep spares on hand, Milo. Sometimes my guests get so drunk they’d fall out of their jeeps on the way back to their own quarters, were I to let them leave here. And we simply can’t have our field- and general-grade officers lying drunk around the cantonment area, you know.” He chuckled.

„ Milo was almost asleep again when a slight noise from the direction of the door brought his eyes open. As he watched, Angelique eased the door shut and moved soundlessly over the carpet past the bunk to where he lay. Shedding the field shirt, she knelt, lifted his blankets and slid in beside him.

“What in … !” he began, only to have her clamp a hand over his mouth, whispering into his ear on a rush of warm, cognac-scented breath.

“Hush, mon capitaine, do not to waken Nicole. You are a good, a truly good, man, m’sieu. You are, in fact, too good to be a man—which species I know all too well. I think that the saints must have been like you in their goodness. You give everything and ask for nothing in return, and … and I cannot allow it, you must not go back across the Rhine with no reward for your generosity. Le general agrees with this.”

Even while she had been speaking, her cool hand had gone seeking along his body, had found that which it sought and had grasped it, gently but firmly. When she had said that which she felt that she must say, she slid about fully beneath the blankets so that her tongue and lips might caress that which her hand held.

Milo’s body instinctively responded. He felt as if he were being bathed in liquid fire, and after so long a period of celibacy, he discovered that his power of restraint had gone. His first ejaculation was long-drawn-out agony, and he groaned in ecstasy. But the talented fellatrice was not done; she lingered, first draining him utterly, then, with tongue and lips and kneading, maddening fingers, rearousing him once more to full tumescence. Much, much later, Angelique left him to return to the outer room and Jethro, but Milo did not hear her go or even know that she had gone.

When next he awakened, bright sunlight was creeping around the blackout curtains, the lanterns were extinguished, and the bunks were empty of occupants. When he entered the bathroom, it was to find a handwritten note tucked into a corner of the mirror above the wash-stand.

The dinner brought in by Sergeant Webber and two privates was a masterpiece by any standards. Milo could not imagine where or how in a war zone Jethro had managed to get such foods and have them prepared so exquisitely—green turtle soup with sherry and herbs, poached sole in aspic, squabs roasted whole and stuffed with butter-soaked breadcrumbs, tiny mushroom caps and truffles, a dish of carrots and parsnips in a sauce flavored with ginger and nutmeg, tiny new potatoes boiled then sauteed with pearl onions in herbed butter, fresh and crusty long loaves of white bread, a selection of nutmeats roasted with garlic, an assortment of cheeses and cherry pastries soaked in rum and brandy. Jethro apologized for the lack of variety in wines, having only champagne to accompany the meal and his fine cognac or Scotch whisky to accompany the coffee.

As the two old friends sat over their coffee, stuffed to repletion and beyond, Jethro said, “I had wanted a suckling pig for this occasion, Milo, but the Germans simply wanted more than I thought I should pay for one.”

“The Germans?” blurted Milo, taken aback. “Where the hell would the Germans get a pig of any description? They’re all starving hereabouts, lining up at every camp to get our mess garbage.”

“Oh, not from Germans around here, Milo. Most of this meal came from Marburg and points beyond, though the bread and the pastries were brought up from Paris by Angelique, along with the nuts and most of the cheeses. I have a contact for the purchase of various items I might want, and, Milo, you would be truly astounded at just how much can now be bought in Nazi Germany for American dollars, pounds sterling or gold—especially for gold. All of the Nazi rats know that the ship of state is sinking fast, you see, and they’re making urgent plans for their futures elsewhere, which futures will require hard monies are they to be.”

“Trading with the enemy, huh?” said Milo. “Jethro, if it ever gets out, they won’t just bust you, they’ll shoot you or hang you- Division might just slap your wrist a few times, but corps and army… .”

Stiles laughed aloud, saying, “Oh, Milo, you are a true naif. Old friend, I am not so stupid as to be in this alone. Some of the highest-ranking officers in this army are with me in these ventures … not in person, of course, but in spirit and in investment. There is over twenty-five troy pounds of gold coin concealed in this pied a terre of mine, along with some hundreds of thousands of dollars in various Allied currencies. Do you honestly think that I could receive or store that much without the willing connivance of my military superiors? Here, try the Antiquary now, it’s one of the best of the single-malts.” After a longish pause while Stiles fiddled with stuffing and lighting his pipe, he said, “Milo, what are your plans for after the war? The Army will be reduced drastically, you know. It’s that way in America after every war, and that means you won’t stay an officer. They’ll likely only keep you in—a Regular or not—if you return to the grade you held before this all started.

“Milo, I keep having presentiments and disturbing dreams. I don’t think I’m going to come through this war alive. No, now, just hold it, don’t say anything, let me finish. My father, my mother, my first wife and the child I had by her all are dead, and my only living relatives are certain distant cousins most of whom I’ve not seen in years and never cared much for, anyway. If I do die over here, there will be no one to care for Martine, for she now has no family left, either.

“Milo, old friend, I want your solemn promise that should something happen to me, you will take my place, will give Martine the care and the companionship she deserves and will try to bring our children up properly. Will you give me such a promise, buddy?”

As men and the sinews of war poured across the Rhine over the Ludendorff railway bridge and the pontoon bridge that replaced the damaged span when finally it collapsed into the swift, swirling waters, the invading U.S. Army surged forward. Marburg fell to elements of General Hodges’ First Army, then on April 1, 1945, his army and General Simpson’s Ninth Army met near Paderborn and the encirclement of General Model and his half-million-man army was complete.

No one expected the skillful, determined and well-supplied German army to surrender simply because they were surrounded, and they did not, but fought on, fought stubbornly and well, against overwhelming odds, to defend the vital Ruhr. But it was an effort foredoomed to failure, for there no longer was a Luftwaffe and the defenders suffered day and night bombing in addition to the fire of guns, howitzers, rockets and heavy mortars, and, by April 14, Model’s army had been split in half. On April 18, the valiant General Model, refusing to be responsible for the loss of the lives of more German soldiers, ordered his remaining units to surrender to the Americans, then put his pistol to his head and suicided.

Milo had established the Charlie Company CP in a house that still had its roof, on the outskirts of the town of Delitzsch, just northeast of Leipzig. Since the drive from the Rhine had begun, the company had lost two officers and more than fifty enlisted men, but now replacements were catching up to them and the other battered, under-strength units of battalion, regiment and division, along with much-needed supplies.

After a morning spent at battalion headquarters in the middle of the nearby town, Milo returned to resume his paperwork. First Sergeant Cohen entered and said without preamble, “Captain, when are we due to cross the Mulde and head for Berlin? Do you know?”

Milo looked up and smiled. “Scuttlebutt up at battalion is that we aren’t. It seems that Ike means to let the Russkis take Berlin, and we’ll probably end up hunting out diehard SS and Nazis in Bavaria. At least that’s what the adjutant thinks, and he’s been right more times than wrong, Bernie.”

“Well, shit, captain,” the sergeant burst out heatedly, “we’re no farther from Berlin, right now, than the Russkis are, so why the hell just give it to them on a fuckin’ silver platter? Our armies fought just as fuckin’ hard as theirs did to get this close. We’re less than a hundred miles away, and all these Krauts are flat beat, no fight left in any of the damned fuckin’ Master Race anymore.”

“True enough, Bernie, but only around here. The adjutant says that the Russkis are having to fight like hell against troops every bit as stubborn as those we faced in the Ruhr. D’you want to go through another helping of that kind of shitstorm? I don’t! I’d much rather think of dead and wounded and missing Red Army troops than American GIs, if you don’t mind, Bernie. We’ll no doubt take casualites in those mountains down there”—he gestured at a map of Germany tacked to a hardwood-paneled, bullet-pocked wall—“but I guarantee we’d take more if we moved on toward Berlin.”

“Captain, by the way, it was a radio message came in while you was up to battalion. Your friend what use to be battalion CO, Gen’rul Stiles, is going to be passing through this afternoon and is going to stop by here to see you about something.”

True to his word, Jethro roared up in a big, long, powerful Mercedes touring car, its brand-new GI paint job streaked and splashed with mud, its tires and undercarriage thick with huge gobs of the gooey stuff.

“Where the hell did you get the car?” asked Milo. “And how the hell do you, a lowly BG, get away with driving around in it?”

Stiles smiled and shrugged languidly. “Spoils of war, Milo, I acquired it from the widow of a … shall we say, a former busineess associate in Marburg.” To Milo’s raised eyebrows, he added, “Yes, that particular one. It seems some of his SS buddies killed him and took away all of his hard funds and all of his other small, valuable items, as well. So I got the automobile at a very good price, dirt cheap, actually.

“What I detoured by here for was this.” Delving into the thick briefcase he had brought in, he withdrew two bulky sealed and taped manila envelopes and placed them on Milo’s desk. “Scoff if you wish, old buddy, but I feel that my demise is very, very near, and—”

“Your demise from what, pray tell?” said Milo. “Jethro, this war is as good as over for us. The Krauts around here are all beat down flat and begging for peace; this whole fucking town is aflutter with white sheets hung out the damned windows. My company and the rest of the battalion and the regiment might well run into some stickiness if we are sent hunting holdout Nazis and SS, but you can bet your arse that division HQ isn’t going to be anywhere near that fracas. So, unless Webber piles up that fancy new auto of yours, or you decide to take a stroll through an uncleared minefield, I can’t think of any possible danger you might be in.”

“Nonetheless, Milo,” Stiles went on mildly, “put these in a safe place for me, please. Open them if you hear of my death. Otherwise, I’ll pick them up within a few weeks or send for you to bring them to me.”

He threw down the last of the schnapps and stood up. “Now I must be going, Milo. Remember your promise, my dear old friend. God bless you.”

Out at the big automobile, Sergeant Webber opened the rear door and stood beside it at attention. After tossing the now lighter and less bulky briefcase in, General Stiles turned back and took Milo’s hand in both of his own and opened his mouth to speak, and that was precisely when the first shot was fired.