He had been sent to join the army in North Africa and had served with the 7769th MIS Battalion as it fought its way up Italy and into Austria with the other intelligence and regular units. He had written to Beulah almost every week, and she had replied equally faithfully-and had always cashed the checks the Army Finance Office had sent her. Milano listened incredulously to the tale and then had to tell the corporal that the same Finance Office had written to him about Beulah and that she had been receiving six other checks besides his. Beulah's allowances had been stopped, and federal prosecutors were preparing to charge her with bigamy and fraud. As for Elmer Peterson, the judge advocate in Vienna would handle his predicament and extricate him from the bogus marriage. Unfortunately, he would probably never recover the money he had allowed Beulah to draw from his army pay over more than two years.
Peterson was astonished and mortified. He said that he had been looking forward to returning home, seeing Beulah again, and meeting her family. He observed sadly that her deceit explained why she had always found excuses for not visiting his mother in Georgia. He also said that he resented being robbed by Beulah: he had never had as much money as he wanted for his Austrian girlfriend. Milano had trouble keeping a straight face as he showed the amorous corporal the door.
A few weeks later, Milano had another problem with Corporal Peterson. This one involved the Soviet Military Mission in Salzburg and the "laundry queens." It was a ticklish matter, because the Soviet Mission, a four-man operation, was the main Soviet presence in the American zone. If it were hampered in its legitimate work, relations with the Soviets would suffer. The Soviet Mission had been established after a request by Marshal Ivan Konev to General Mark Clark: the Russian wanted to send his officers into the camps in the American zone to interview Soviet and other Eastern refugees and to try to persuade them to return home. Western policy was that no displaced person was to be forced to go home against his will. The rule was not applied uniformly: soldiers in the Vlasov army, wartime Soviet deserters, and many anti-Communist Yugoslav refugees were sent back en masse, particularly from Italy. In Austria, at any event, the Americans tried to protect the refugees from being intimidated or misled. When the Soviet Mission visited camps in Austria, they were always accompanied by a Russian-speaking American officer whose job was to ensure that the Soviets did not coerce the camps' inmates. Another purpose of the Soviet Mission, of course, was espionage. This was low-level intelligence gathering, but the Americans wanted to keep an eye on it.
The senior American liaison officer with the Soviet Mission was Major Garry Hartel. He had studied Russian at an army language school in California and had then been posted to England, where he had acquired an English wife. He was a valuable member of Milano's staff: good Russian speakers were at a premium. Part of his duty was to make friends with the Soviet officers he was watching. The Americans did not expect any of them to defect, but keeping track of them was easier if relations were good. Hartel was therefore friends with Lieutenant Ivan Bergoff, one of the four Russians in the mission, and when the lieutenant found Corporal Peterson in bed with his girlfriend, he naturally appealed to Hartel for advice.
The girl was one of the "laundry queens," a group of five young women who had set themselves up near Salzburg airport to provide laundry and other services to the troops. They were not too far from the American barracks to be inaccessible, not too close to be directly under the eyes of senior officers and MPs. It was not quite clear whether the laundry was a cover for their real occupation or whether acquiring generous American boyfriends was merely a perk of the trade. At any event, they worked hard at both occupations. They had earned enough to renovate the house where they lived and worked, each girl had a room to herself where she could receive visitors in complete privacy, and when the current boyfriend returned to the States, there was always another to replace him. The boyfriends were not all Americans. One of them was Lieutenant Bergoff.
The girl in question was named Inga, and she was attractive and charming and had a good sense of timing. Lieutenant Bergoff spent no more than half his time in Salzburg. He was constantly on the move among the many DP camps in the American zone, and during his absences Inga entertained Corporal Peterson of the MIS motor pool. Major Hartel was unable to learn how long this happy arrangement had continued, but when he reported to Milano he was able to describe very precisely when and how it had abruptly come to an end. Bergoff, accompanied by Hartel, had been visiting a DP camp at Sankt Johann in Pongau. He had intended to stay there overnight but had decided to return early and spend the night with Inga. Evidently, he had failed to inform her of his intentions. When he arrived in her room unannounced, using the key she had given him, he found Corporal Peterson, wearing only a bathrobe belonging to Bergoff, drinking his wine, and making himself comfortable. Inga was also undressed.
Bergoff was enraged. For months past he had been plying Inga with vodka, caviar, wine, and other Russian presents, while Peterson had been giving her goods from the PX. They both also paid her well for her laundry-and other-duties. The two men started a shouting match, which soon developed into a scuffle. Peterson was at a disadvantage, being practically naked. Fortunately, the other laundry queens were there, as were some of their own boyfriends, who imposed order. The two lovers were told to leave, and Inga promised to speak to each of them later, separately. Bergoff refused to go until he had seen Peterson dressed, and they both left together. Then he rushed over to see Hartel, to demand that Peterson be suspended immediately or sent out of the country. Otherwise, he could not answer for the consequences.
He then asked Hartel not to mention the incident to his superior officer, Major Yuri Smirnoff. No doubt commanders of Russian units in occupied territory knew that their officers were likely to take advantage of the opportunities offered them, but, like officials everywhere, they preferred to turn a blind eye to such matters. Hartel told him that he was an American officer and could promise nothing. Besides, the episode could hardly remain a secret for long: Bergoff would be well advised to inform Major Smirnoff himself.
Hartel reported the whole incident to Milano the next day. Milano had already interviewed Peterson, who was just as indignant as Lieutenant Bergoff and demanded that the Russian be expelled forthwith. Hartel had then spoken to John Berg, security officer in the 430th CIC Detachment in Salzburg. It turned out that Inga's arrangements were so well known that Peterson's colleagues had started a pool. Everyone had bet five dollars on the date when Inga's two lovers would meet. They were all certain that the international triangle could not last much longer. Some of them, carried away by enthusiasm, had bet on several days. The winner collected $150.
Milano was outraged. He demanded to know why he had not been informed of this lapse of security, especially since it involved one of his own men. Hartel sheepishly told him that the men in the motor pool had concluded that if he had been told, he would have broken up the love triangle immediately and would thus have spoiled their game. They had not even told their senior officer, who was now protesting loudly that he had been excluded from an important sporting event. Milano shouted at his secretary to fetch Berg and to send word to Peterson to report forthwith.
Lieutenant John Berg was an impressive-looking soldier, in the American mold. He was a good six feet two, loose-limbed, strong, and casual. Like almost everyone else in the unit, he was in civilian clothes, which in his case meant an open-necked sport shirt, jacket, and baggy pants. He had come from the depths of the Midwest, De Kalb, Iowa, where he had been deputy sheriff before joining up. He had found the army, particularly the informal unit under Major Milano, very much to his liking and intended to make a career of it. He was in his mid-thirties, a bachelor, who had discovered that Salzburg was filled with young widows in need of care and counseling and a corresponding shortage of eligible young men. He had devoted himself with such success to his counseling business that he had provoked the fury and jealousy of all his colleagues, who demanded to know his secret. How did he manage
to meet so many young women in need of his advice and support, and how did he then succeed in keeping them all happy? He refused to explain his techniques, on the grounds that he did not need the competition, and his friends were constrained to make their own arrangements.
Evidently, he was not the sort of man to take the Peterson-IngaBergoff triangle too seriously. Milano tried to play the role of a stern commanding officer: "Big John, what's the meaning of not telling me about this affair? It could have seriously screwed up our dealings with the Reds, not to mention our own security. How the hell can I run this unit if my own officers don't tell me what's going on?"
Berg was quite unperturbed. "Jim, you know damn well that if you'd heard about it you'd have shut it down immediately. I don't think it did any harm. It was bound to blow up soon enough, and it generated a lot of harmless fun in my section. We kept a sharp eye on the lovebirds so they couldn't get up to any serious mischief. Anyway, now that Elmer's been caught with his pants down, I think it's time he was rotated back to the States. He's about due to go anyway: we just won't give him an extension. That should satisfy the Russians. They can do whatever they like with Bergoff, that's their business."
Milano was still angry at Berg, but, short of making a federal case out of the affair, this was probably the best solution. Major Hartel agreed. Keeping the Russians quiet was much more important than keeping the incorrigible Corporal Peterson happy, and Berg had indeed kept a sharp eye on the situation. That, after all, was his job as head of counterintelligence, not watching over the morals of the enlisted men.
Peterson was then called in and once more confronted with the consequences of his love affairs. Milano was kind, giving the man a seat and breaking the news gently. "It's about your troubles with Inga and the Russian. I've decided that it would be best for you to return to the States immediately. All the paperwork should be done in a week.
"I'm sorry to do this. You're a good mechanic, but it seems that you can't keep your love life under control."
Peterson protested that it was all the Russian's fault, that he had been perfectly happy with Inga until Bergoff came along, had even been thinking of marrying her now that he was no longer tied to Beulah. "Is there anything I can say to get you guys to change your minds?" he asked hopefully.
Milano replied firmly: "No, Elmer, there isn't. Sorry. You'll be out of here in a week. It's time to say good-bye to Inga, for good."
Peterson took it like a man. He stood up, saluted, and left-making the parting observation that "It's like my daddy always said: you can't make a wheel turn two ways at once." His superiors were left to digest the remark.
The Soviets dealt with Lieutenant Bergoff equally expeditiously. Scarcely was the lovelorn corporal out of the room, than Milano's secretary, Pat, announced a call for Major Hartel: the Soviet liaison commanding officer, Major Smirnoff, was on the phone. Lieutenant Ivan Bergoff was being recalled to the Soviet Union immediately, without explanation. The Americans would be notified of his replacement in due course.
There was a sour joke in Britain during the war among the male half of the population, that there was nothing wrong with the hundreds of thousands of young American soldiers who flooded the place before D-Day-except that they were overpaid, oversexed, and over here. The belief that American troops enjoyed an unfair advantage with the local girls applied even more strongly in occupied Germany and Austria. All of them, including the intelligence operatives in Salzburg and Vienna, seized every occasion that was offered, and Jim Milano often had to cope with the consequences.
On one occasion, true love came to one of Milano's senior officers, Dominic Del Greco. It was all rather unfortunate, as the lady in question, Lotti von Zastro, had been brought to the Operations Branch and entrusted to Milano's care by her fiance. He was Peter Pavone, a young lieutenant in one of the infantry regiments in the occupation army, who had breezed into Milano's office one summer day with the request that Milano help him ship Lotti and her belongings to New York. He was being sent home ten days later, but it would take another two or three weeks after that for the army bureaucracy to complete the paperwork to allow Lotti to follow him. He needed help in getting Lotti and her luggage safely onto the flight from Vienna, and an acquaintance had recommended that he apply to Milano. He was a recent arrival and did not know anyone in his own unit he could trust. He needed someone reliable, competent, and protective, so he had come to Jim Milano's office.
This was not at all usual, but the Special Intelligence Section was a flexible organization, and Milano accepted the old dictum that all the world loves a lover. He told Pavone to go ahead with his arrangements: he wanted to prepare his Sicilian-born parents for the prospect of an Austrian daughter-in-law. In due course, Pavone left for New York, and a day or two after that Lotti came to the Osterreicher Hof Hotel to meet Milano. He was having dinner there with Del Greco. The maitre d' came over and whispered that a young lady was asking for him. It was Lotti, and all eyes in the restaurant turned toward her as she made her entrance. She was a strikingly beautiful, generously proportioned blonde with the smile of an angel and the gait of a tiger. She was memorably dressed in a Land Salzburg dirndl, the local dress. She sat at the two Americans' table for half an hour and charmed them completely. She spoke excellent English and was witty, amusing, and well informed, as well as being exceedingly decorative.
It turned out that she was the daughter of a successful banker in Vienna who had managed to keep clear of the Nazi Party during the 1930s and in the war. Lotti had studied acting in Vienna and had had minor roles in a couple of Nazi propaganda films. She was looking forward to moving to Brooklyn and was most grateful to Major Milano for helping smooth the way for her. Milano, of course, was very struck by her. So was Dominic Del Greco. He offered to take her home at the end of the evening and vanished into the night with the lady on his arm.
Over the next couple of weeks, Del Greco could be seen escorting Lotti around town, organizing her affairs, showing her the sights. Milano did not inquire too closely into this developing friendship and was suitably grateful when Dominic volunteered to drive Lotti to Vienna airport on the day of her departure. It was a five-hour drive, so they had to leave early in the morning. Milano had breakfast with them, gave Lotti a pair of Hummel figurines as a wedding present, asked her to give his best regards to Lieutenant Pavone; and saw them on their way. He was having dinner alone in the Osterreicher Hof restaurant that evening, thinking of other matters, when he saw Del Greco and Lotti approaching. They looked rather sheepish, or sly, and Milano was astonished to see them.
"What on earth happened?" he asked. "Did you miss the plane?"
"Not exactly," Del Greco replied. "She didn't go. There was a change of plan."
With some prodding from Lotti, and with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado, Del Greco explained what had happened. "When we reached the airport," he said, "we checked Lotti's luggage at Pan Am, got her ticket stamped, and so on. Then it was time to walk her to the plane. I kissed her good-bye, and just as she was about to climb on board she turned and said she would rather stay in Austria with me. I said, 'Why don't you?' and that was that. We canceled her flight. It was too late to get her bags back, so we just piled into the jeep, and here we are."
Milano was astonished. "What about Pavone? He'll be standing at the gate at Idlewild, waiting for Lotti with a bunch of flowers and his mother in tow. What are you going to do about him?"
"We've got a great favor to ask you, Jim," Lotti answered. "The plane is due in New York in about an hour. Could you call the airport and break the news to him? I couldn't bear to speak to him myself."
"And I sure as hell can't," said Del Greco.
It looked as though Milano had no choice. Muttering to himself about the follies of youth-or at least the follies of Dominic Del Greco-he walked over to the Red Cross Club, a servicemen's establishment near the hotel, which maintained a telephone for calls to the United States. It was not so easy to get a line, and Milano had to offer to
take the operator to the ballet as a bribe. She told him crossly that she did not like classical music but would settle for a puppet show. Milano agreed and was given the next available slot to the States. In theory, there was a three-minute limit on calls, but the operator was understanding: it took more than that to get the Pan Am operator at Idlewild to page Lieutenant Pavone and bring him to the phone.
There was one advantage, however: Milano could legitimately keep the call brief.
"Lieutenant," he said, "I've got some bad news for you. Lotti's not on the plane."
"Dear God!" cried Pavone. "What's happened to her?"
"I'm afraid she's decided to stay in Austria with another man. She says she's very sorry, she can't excuse it, but she's fallen in love with this guy and won't be going to the United States."
Pavone was stunned. "I've got my parents here to meet her. We'd got everything arranged for the wedding," he wailed. "What am I going to do?"
Milano was firm and brief. "I'm about to be cut off," he said. "I'm sorry, but could you retrieve Lotti's luggage and send it back? This was a last-minute decision of hers."
The operator then mercifully pulled the plug. It had been an unpleasant conversation. Milano did not feel proud of himself, but at least he had done his duty for a friend and colleague. He went back to the hotel, where the two lovers were waiting for him expectantly. They were much more relaxed now that they had told their storyand got someone else to break the news to Lotti's fiance.
"Did you get him?" Lotti asked. "How did he take it?"
Milano replied, "He seemed stunned. But we were only on the line for a couple of minutes, so there wasn't time for any long explanation. I said you'd be writing to him." Milano glowered at them for a moment, then added, "Now I'm going to bed. This is the last time I play Cupid."
Soldiers, Spies, and the Rat Line Page 13
