A Man Called Milo Morai

by Robert Adams

  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.

  "Milo,"

  "All play and no work makes generals into colonels or majors. Whenever you wake up and get yourself together, our good Sergeant Webber will be waiting outside for your orders or whatever. There will be no ladies tonight; they will be on their way back to Paris by then. We will have dinner and a talk and a bottle or three. Tomorrow morning, I have to leave on a trip for division and you'll have to go back to the front. Enjoy today, old buddy."

  "Jethro."

  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, ri
ght 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.

  Chapter XII

  Stiles gasped, grimaced, then his legs flexed, and he would have fallen save for Milo's grip on his hand. The second shot was fired, and Milo felt something tear through the left shoulder of his Ike jacket. Almost at the same time, there was a third shot that struck the muddy boot-cover of the automobile and caromed off, whining.

  Webber had stood for a bare moment in shock, then he had sunk to his knees beside the door. As he slid forward on his face, Milo saw the red-welling hole drilled into the back of his neck, just at the base of the skull.

  Forcibly pulling his hand free from the powerful grasp of his friend, Milo reached for his pistol, slapped his hip and cursed; his pistol belt still hung on a hook beside his desk.

  "Bernie!" he roared, "Get me a fucking weapon of some kind out here, and some grenades, too. Snipers. Snipers in the big front upstairs window of that house two doors up on the other side of the street. At least two of the Kraut fuckers. And get Nicely to see to the general —he's been hit."

  Stiles lay quietly, his face whiter than pale and his breathing ragged. Milo could see no wound on the front, so he gently eased the man partially over. Then he could see it, and it looked far from good—a rapidly growing blotch of blood at just about the center of the left shoulder blade. With a retching, tearing sound, Stiles coughed up a thick spray of red blood, then, with the blood still dribbling from his mouth and nose and down his chin, he spoke, hoarsely.

  "Milo… for the love of God, prop me up… can't breathe!"

  Milo saw the long barrel of a Mauser K98 poke out of the window opening once again, and he ducked down, shielding Jethro as much as he could with his own body. But the shot was obviously aimed elsewhere, at another target. Milo heard it hit something more solid than flesh and bone, though it did elicit a vile curse from someone who sounded like Master Sergeant Chamberlin.

  Sure enough, as he looked up at a nearby scuffling sound, it was to see the hulking Chamberlin belly-crawling toward him, a Thompson cradled in his thick arms.

  When the noncom had come close enough, Milo grabbed the submachine gun from him. "Give me the magazine pouch, too. I'll keep the fuckers down. You hightail it back and get some more men, good ones, too, not any of these fucking johnny-come-latelies. See if you can run down an M7 launcher or at least some hand grenades."

  The rifle barrel had withdrawn into the darkened room behind the window, but still Milo took no chances. Using the boot of the Mercedes for both cover and a shooting rest, he sprayed half a magazine of big .45 caliber slugs across the window, parallel to the sill. From the first-floor window came a flash and the booming sound of a pistol and the simultaneous smack of the bullet into the far side of the tire beside which Milo crouched. With a drawn-out hissing the tire began to flatten. But he didn't flinch, he just lowered the muzzle of the smoking Thompson and put the other half of the magazine across the width of the lower window; his reward was a high-pitched scream.

  As Milo leaned back against the shot-out tire, ejecting the spent magazine and replacing it with a fresh one from Chamberlin's pouch, Jethro, now sitting propped against the side of the auto, extended a hand to grip his arm… very weakly.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it long enough to feebly spit out a mouthful of blood. In a voice so faint that at times Milo could not hear it at all, he said, "… long, long road, for me. Martine and you… the last few years of it much happier… more real happiness than I ever deserved."

  "… see things now, Milo, You, you…like us but not really us… ageless, timeless, immortal. You and… people like you… rule an empire… different world, then. You will keep… promise, see you keep… ing it. Then fight a… nother war… many other wars. Savior of a race… little children. New world… talk to… cats, horses, other animals."

  "Be good… Martine, Milo, buddy… know you will…"

  Then the rifle was firing again and Chamberlin shouted, "Keep that Kraut bastard down, Milo, he just got Jackson in the leg, Medici"

  Again taking his position behind the boot of the Mercedes, Milo feathered the trigger, firing bursts of three or four shots each at the window. By the time the magazine was empty, Master Sergeant Chamberlin and four other men were crouching behind the bulk of the automobile-three, with Garands, one with a BAR, the sergeant bearing another Thompson and a bag of grenades.

  "Foun' two M7s, Milo, but not one fuckin' grenade cart'ridge in the whole fuckin' pl'toon. Would you b'lieve it? Shit!"

  Before Milo could speak, First Sergeant Bernie Cohen came crawling out from the company CP, a carbine slung across his back and a bazooka in his arms, with a rocket for it in each hand.

  Milo set aside the Thompson and grabbed the rocket launcher, but Chamberlin protested, "Jesus Christ Almighty, Milo
, you'll blow that whole rickety place down, even if you don't burn it down. A fuckin' bazooka?"

  Ignoring the admonition, Milo said, "Bernie, the minute the first one's clear, load the second one. There's snipers both up and down, looks like. Even if we do blow the whole house in, they've got it coming for hanging out white sheets, then firing on us the way they are. Okay, I'm set. Load!"

  Three bodies were dug out of the tumbled wreck that once had been a house. Milo felt sick at first when he saw them, saw the faces; the eldest could not have been any more than thirteen or fourteen. But one of them—the one with a big-bore bullet hole between his neck and shoulder with the scapula brown away on that side—was still gripping in his dead hand a Mauser HCs pistol with three shots gone from its magazine. Seeing this helped him to recover quickly. In addition to the smaller pistol, they found a P38 9mm pistol, a K98 rifle and an Erma MP38/40 with a burst cartridge case in the chamber. There were in addition to the firearms two SS daggers, about two dozen more rounds for the rifle, another magazine for each of the pistols and one for the Maschinenpistole.

  "Just a bunch of fuckin' little kids." Chamberlin shook his head in clear consternation. "Hell, the way they were shootin', I thought we was up against SS or Wehrmacht, anyhow. Where did three little boys get aholt of stuff like that, you reckon?"

  "Fuckin'-A right they was good shots," exclaimed First Sergeant Bernie Cohen. "I'll lay you dollars to doughnuts these three here was Hitler Youths and been learning to shoot and fight since they was five, six years old. As for the guns and all, you can bet on it that them fuckers was hid by a coupla blackshirts what all of a fuckin' sudden come to think they didn't want to be in no POW camp and that they's ackshu'ly been innocent civilians at heart all along. And you can bet its a whole lotta fuckin' Krauts just like them in thishere town and from one end of Germany to the other end, right now."