He made his way out of the hotel restaurant, leaving the two alone. There was nothing else for them to do but order a bottle of champagne. Milano had to look forward to an afternoon at a puppet show with the grumpy telephone operator.
On another occasion, Milano was accomplice, or at least passive witness, to an act of mercy performed by one of his colleagues. The incident occurred when there was a change of command in the censorship section. This was a large part of the work of the MIS section in Austria. The Civilian Censorship Detachment supervised all civilian mail going to foreign countries and opened the mail of those on the security list and all the mail going to certain countries. It also had representatives in every telephone exchange in the American zone, tapped the phones of those on the list, and watched all telex communications. The officer in charge, Major Tony Certa, returned to the United States in 1948 to marry his sweetheart in Wilmington, Delaware, and attend the Law School of Delaware University. He was from a devout Catholic family and had turned out to be an exceptionally competent censor.
His successor was an old friend of Milano's, Captain John Scheering, the officer whose piano had been carried by the unit all the way from Morocco to Italy. After the war, he had returned to the cocktail lounge circuit in New York and had quickly discovered that the life suited him not at all. He had therefore applied for a job with Army Intelligence, as a civilian. He arrived shortly before Certa's departure, and the two of them went around the American zone as one said goodbye and the other introduced himself to the various censorship office detachments. It was after one of these trips that Scheering came to Milano with some surprising news and a proposal.
"Jim, I've learned something astonishing. Tony is a twenty-sixyear-old virgin. We were up late in a bar last night, and he confessed that he had never had sex in his life. It's astonishing. It's because he was brought up a Catholic of the strictest sort, and now he's going back to Delaware, after four years in Europe, with nothing to show for it. I think we should do something about it."
Milano was startled-both at the report and at his friend's robust determination to correct the situation.
"Don't you think that's none of our business?" he suggested. "He's had every possible opportunity while here. Perhaps he doesn't want to."
"Oh, yes, he does, only he won't admit it. He's rather ashamed and far too embarrassed to do anything about it himself. I've got an idea, and I need your help."
Milano was finally persuaded to play a part, though a small one, in his departing subordinate's education. Certa and Scheering were to visit a telephone exchange in Gmunden the next day, and Milano had already invited himself along for the trip. They were all to have lunch at the local MIS officer's house in the afternoon, and Scheering proposed that Milano take the unsuspecting Certa along to a bar in the local hotel that evening. He would go ahead to make certain arrangements-though at this stage he was not at all sure what they would be.
Everything went according to plan. The inspection went well and was followed by a long, convivial lunch. Scheering vanished early, and in the evening Milano and Certa went looking for him. When the two men arrived in the bar, they found Scheering installed in a corner with two very pretty young women, whom he introduced as Mickey and Stella. Milano asked what Mickey's last name was, and she replied "Mouse." They all got off to a good start, and then Mickey remarked that the bar prices were outrageous and announced that the girls had a bottle of first-rate Cognac in their room. Why not adjourn upstairs for a more comfortable drink?
Milano could take a hint and promptly agreed. The whole party moved to the girls' room, which was equipped with a large bed, several chairs-and, as promised, a bottle of first-rate French brandy.
At about the second drink, Stella announced that she was hot and asked if anyone would object if she removed her clothes. No one did, and in a moment she was completely naked. Milano and Scheering were unmoved. Certa was showing signs of stress. Then Mickey, too, removed her clothes. Certa's eyes were popping out of his head. Scheering suggested that Milano step outside for a moment, and, as the two men left the room, closing the door behind them, they had a glimpse of the two girls pouncing on the astonished, unresisting young man.
"They're on the payroll for two hours," Scheering informed his partner in crime, roaring with laughter. They returned to the bar for the prescribed period and spent the time discussing golf, baseball, and other important matters.
When the two hours were up, they returned to the bedroom, where they found the three wrapped together under a blanket on the bed. Certa gazed at them, wide-eyed.
"What an experience!" he whispered.
It was not only the men who had a predatory attitude toward the Austrians. There was a small but conspicuous contingent of American women, who had been brought over as secretaries to handle sensitive material. Milano's operation always had a number of them, because of the extreme secrecy of his work, and some of them were quite as liberated from the tedious, moralistic constraints of civilian society back home as any twenty-year-old soldier. Milano had two secretaries, Eileen and Pat. Pat Walden was known to her colleagues behind her back as "P.P.," meaning Parallel Patricia. She was thirty or so, divorced, petite, and very attractive. She was a sociable lady and when once during a party was accused of fickleness, she remarked that while she loved steak, she would not want to eat that and nothing else every day of the year. The men, of course, loved her and gossiped about her, and from time to time she would complain to Jim Milano that she was being traduced. All the same, she kept playing the field as long as she was with Intelligence.
On one occasion, protesting to Milano that her nickname was quite unjustified, she offered as proof of her virtue that she had gone out the previous night with a recent recruit to the CIC, Bob Murray, a new agent working for Milano, and that two very pleasant hours spent in his company had led to nothing at all.
Milano scoffed at the story. "Bob's not a good example," he said. "Most of us in Operations think he doesn't like women, or is a switch-hitter."
Pat was puzzled. "What's a switch-hitter?"
"Baseball. Someone who can hit right-handed or left-handed. A switch-hitter can deal with a left-handed or right-handed pitcher."
"What's that got to do with Bob Murray?"
"Perhaps he likes men and women equally. Or doesn't like women at all. Didn't he even make a pass at you? After all, you are known as a friendly girl."
Milano evidently knew his secretary very well. They were old buddies, and they could gossip about these very personal matters without the reticence that officers should normally show.
She did not take offense, and replied, "No, he didn't, and I was rather surprised. Most men move in right away. They all seem to think they're God's gift to women. Not that I mind: I can handle them. But Bob wasn't like that at all."
For Milano, this was more than casual gossip. It would be a serious matter if Bob Murray were indeed homosexual. The rules were strict and were strictly enforced, particularly in Intelligence. Gay men were considered a security risk and were rigorously excluded. Pat Walden's encounter with him might permit Milano to clarify the situation without the messy and unpleasant business of mounting an official inquiry.
"Why don't we do a little experiment?" he said. "Next time you're in Le Bar, snuggle up to him and see how he takes it. You'll be able to tell."
Pat accepted the challenge at once. The term "singles' bar" had not yet been coined, but the institution flourished. Le Bar was a favorite pickup place for Americans in Salzburg, and behind the bar was a huge sign reading "THE INEVITABLE."
"Okay," she said. "I'll be there tonight, and I'll bet he's there too. I'll bring you the bar tab, and you can pay for the drinks."
Milano agreed to the condition, and a couple of days later Pat reappeared and presented a bar bill for a considerable quantity of champagne.
"I was in Le Bar last night, having a drink, when Bob came in. He sat next to me and we talked and we drank and we were getting on just f
ine. So when no one was looking I put my hand on his leg and gave him a squeeze." She looked all innocently at Milano at this point.
"It was pretty dramatic. He jumped up, spilling his drink. He was furious. 'Don't you ever do that again!' he said. 'I don't appreciate it at all!' He was really steamed and just stormed out of the place. He didn't even say good night."
Pat evidently thought the whole story was a great joke. She had quite forgotten that two days earlier she had been complaining to Milano that she had been unfairly labeled Parallel Pat, one of the more easily available women on base. Milano was grateful. "That settles it," he said. "We think Bob Murray tried to pick up that new lieutenant who's just arrived, Jack Neeley, last night. I think I'll put him on the next flight back to New York. It's a pity, he was a good agent."
This was not what Pat had expected. Perhaps she had not appreciated what her boss was after, that this was not just a matter of teasing a colleague. Milano initialed her bar bill and she left, rather subdued, to pick up the money from Eileen, who looked after the petty cash.
Eileen came in to ask Milano about it. "What's this bar tab Pat produced? What should I charge it to?"
Milano thought for a moment, then replied, "Put it down to Operation Switch-Hitter."
"There's no such thing," she replied, baffled.
"Well, just start a file. You never know when it might come in useful."
Sometimes the private lives of American secretaries had more serious consequences. Not all of them were content with the choice offered at Le Bar and similar establishments. There was a number of young, and not so young, American women in Vienna who were the subject of a sustained campaign of seduction by the KGB. Eastern Europeans, usually Poles or Hungarians, were the Lotharios. They were invariably young and handsome, speaking good English, and describing themselves as students or recent graduates of one of the universities in Vienna. They had nice apartments in the American zone of the city, and they appeared to have plentiful allowances.
Jim Milano was sometimes called in to mediate such affairs. The most sensitive concerned the secretary to Colonel Arnold Potter, deputy chief of staff for operations at American headquarters. The secretary was Susan Fox, from Pocatello, Idaho. She had worked in Washington for her congressman, and after the war she had applied for an overseas job with the Army and had been assigned to headquarters in Vienna. She was forty-two and had never married. She was rather plain, solitary, and repressed. On one of Milano's trips to Vienna, where he kept an office, he was informed by his counterintelligence chief there, Park Hancock, that she had apparently fallen for a tall, good-looking, dashing twenty-two-year-old Hungarian named Frank Lazan. The young man had earlier had an affair with the secretary of a minister in the Austrian government, and the CIC strongly suspected that he worked for the KGB.
This was potentially a serious matter. Colonel Potter's office was one of the most sensitive in the American HQ, and there might be a disaster if the KGB succeeded in seducing or blackmailing the colonel's secretary into treason. Milano decided that his superior, Colonel Bixell, should be informed. He was an old friend of Colonel Potter, and the two could decide what to do. They all had offices in the same building, and Milano marched in to Bixell to break the news. The intelligence chief was very concerned and said that he would tell his friend Colonel Potter immediately, and inform Milano of whatever they decided.
Within the hour, the two colonels appeared in Milano's office. They were both appalled at the security risks involved: the chief of operations, among other things, directed planning for the Allied response to a possible Soviet invasion. If Miss Fox ever succumbed to the blandishments her friend was presumably offering, she could do immense damage. On the other hand, there was no proof at all that she might be disloyal, and the two officers hesitated to confront her. So they asked Jim Milano to do it.
He protested vehemently. That was not in his job description. It was a matter for the CIC in Vienna, not at all something that the head of operations in Salzburg should be involved in. All the same, the two colonels insisted. Perhaps they thought the interview would go better with a younger man. Perhaps they were just cowardly.
Susan Fox arrived at Milano's office at 8:30 the following morning. She seemed to him an altogether formidable lady. She said, "I understand you want to see me, Major," and sat down across the desk from him, looking stern and rigid.
There was no point in beating about the bush. "I've been asked by Colonels Bixell and Potter to ask you some questions regarding your relationship with Mr. Lazan."
He got no further. "Don't they have the guts to talk about it directly? What's it got to do with you who I spend my off-duty hours with?"
"Please, Miss Fox, I know it's embarrassing. Believe me, I find this just as difficult as you do. But there are valid security reasons, and that's my only interest. I've no moral ax to grind at all. It's my job to do this. You have access to highly classified materials, and so I have to be interested in your relationship with an East European twenty years younger than yourself. Surely you must understand."
His attempt at the gentle approach was a complete failure. "You people make me sick with your harping on national security! What about all those officers here whose wives haven't arrived or are still back home who have been shacking up with every woman in town? Is it your job to check up on them, or do you just check up on the ladies, and the men can do what they please? What about Colonel Potter, who had an Austrian girlfriend here before his wife arrived? Are you going to check up on him?
"Major, I will not be humiliated by your interfering, twisted, suspicious so-called national security. What's more, I know several congressmen, and if you try anything funny I'll expose the whole damn lot of you, including Colonel Potter." With that she got to her feet and marched out of the room.
Milano reported the interview to his superiors. He had to confess that he had not covered himself with glory. In fact it had been a onesided rout. On the other hand, Susan Fox's extreme reaction showed that this was a serious affair. A further meeting was held with Colonels Potter and Bixell, and Park Hancock. They concluded that Miss Fox should be sent back to the United States immediately and should cease working for Colonel Potter that afternoon.
Then Colonel Potter asked his colleagues: "But what if she does know something about me and tells my wife?"
There was a long pause. Then Milano said, "Sir, if that happens, there's only one thing to do. Lie to your wife with complete sincerity. You must look and sound sincere, and you might want to practice in front of a mirror."
Everyone laughed, but as they left Milano observed that Colonel Potter was looking extremely thoughtful.
During World War II, the chief of American clandestine organizations was the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), which had been set up by President Franklin D. Roosevelt just before the United States entered the war. Its head was the legendary William Donovan, known as "Wild Bill," who set his mark indelibly upon American intelligence gathering. As late as the 1980s, William Casey, director of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), who had served under Donovan during the war, was still operating in the Donovan style. He ran the Iran-Contra affair with a complete disregard of the legal niceties and the requirements of congressional approval. Donovan would have approved. The OSS was dissolved immediately after the war, in 1945, because it seemed to people in Washington, notably the State Department, that cowboy spy operations were no longer needed. Besides, they had never liked Donovan, and his great patron, Roosevelt, was dead. A residual operation, the Strategic Services Unit (SSU), was continued. When the CIA was set up in 1947, it absorbed the SSU, which thus served as a transitional link between the wartime exploits of the OSS and the long cold war campaigns of the CIA. The SSU played only a slight role in intelligence affairs during its few years of independent existence. It operated independently of Army Intelligence and reported directly to its own headquarters in Washington, preserving the tradition of competing intelligence agencies that continues to th
is day. However, Army Intelligence in Austria had various dealings with this transitional organization during the first three years after the war. Milano was constantly in touch with its agents, including the station chief in Salzburg, Bert Lifschultz.
When President Truman set up the Central Intelligence Agency in 1947, its director was given the additional responsibility of coordinating all American intelligence services, and the new agency set to work bringing them all under its control.
The various departments of Army Intelligence gathered intelligence, of course, but that was not always their only, or even main, purpose. The defined role of the Counter-Intelligence Corps (CIC), in Austria as everywhere else, was counterintelligence. Under army regulations, the CIC was directed to "contribute to the operation of the Army Establishment through the detection of treason, sedition, subversive activity and disaffection, and the detection, prevention or neutralization of espionage or sabotage within, or directed against, the Army Establishment." But the 430th CIC in Austria had also been given the job of pursuing positive intelligence. That was a much more glamorous and exciting task than counterintelligence. Washington was constantly making demands for intelligence gathering, and they were passed on to the 430th, whose officers took to the task with zest, in close collaboration with the MIS and Milano's office. In Austria, that meant chiefly local intelligence. They spied on the Soviet forces in their zone and peered across the borders into Hungary and Czechoslovakia as far as they could, to monitor the activities and intentions of the Red Army units there. Their chief contribution to the wider fields of intelligence, the gathering of information on the military, economic, and political situation in the Soviet Union and its satellites, came from their interrogation of defectors. At the same time, the MIS teams discovered a great deal of information by interrogating DPs, who often brought useful knowledge with them from their homes or the places to which the tides of war had taken them. This source of information practically dried up by 1948-49 but was then supplemented by returning prisoners of war, who had often been sent to work in important Soviet installations or factories far to the east, beyond the Urals, where normal American intelligence could never penetrate. They often provided exceedingly useful information. The Army Intelligence operations left to other agencies the task of attempting to penetrate directly into the deepest recesses of Stalin's dominions but at all times maintained close contact with them. The various agencies could help one another, if necessary, if only by making sure that they did not inadvertently interfere with some particular operation.
Soldiers, Spies, and the Rat Line Page 14
