Robert Adams - The Memories of Milo Morai

Barstow sighed and shook his head. “I’d think that even a mind as dense as yours would have by now absorbed the fact that you can’t anger me with your radicalism and holier-than-thou condescension, Padre. Why do you keep trying, huh? The security measures are, of course, to protect this operation from Uncle Joe Stalin’s Russians, the people we’ll have to fight in the next war.

“That’s enough, Padre, no more of your questions, if that’s what they really are. We’ve had a long, hard trip today, and most of us would like to chow down and get in some sack time—I know I would—and we won’t do either until this briefing is done.

“As of work call tomorrow morning, the only people on post who will be wearing uniforms will be me, Sergeant Baker and Privates Hayes and Lyman, plus the cooks, medical personnel and suchlike who will be keeping us reasonably comfortable and this post operating. The rest of you will all be wearing civvies. Those of you who came from Europe with me are accustomed to this drill, the rest of you now know why you were issued civvies back up at Holabird. And no nonuniformed person will ever be addressed by rank or last name here—those of you who want to choose a name other than your own given name or use a nick-name should give that name to Private Hayes before you leave this building.

“As regards quarters, we have plenty of space allotted us, so you can all have private rooms if you wish, or you may double- or triple- or quadruple-bunk, it’s entirely up to you. Of course, some more personnel will be joining us shortly, and we may have to give you all roommates when they arrive.” He grinned. “War is hell, they say. By the way, Betty, at least two of the incomings will be female, so you’ll be assured of someone to go to the loo with you.

“You’ll assemble back here after work call tomorrow morning and we’ll take a walking tour of our projected areas of activity, then return for more briefing, in-depth briefing.

“Chow tonight will be C-rations.”

There was a concerted groan from his audience.

“They won’t kill you, this once.” Barstow grinned maliciously. “At least they’ll be hot, and there’s loaf bread and real coffee to go with them, cold milk, too. The cooks won’t get here until tonight, but that means you’ll have an A-ration breakfast. And you’ll all be pleased to know that these cooks of ours are going to be top-notch, every one of them, hand-picked. You’ll also be pleased to know, I’m certain, that as we will have no ranks here, everyone will be considered an officer and will be able to receive a liquor ration.

“This room we’re now in will be fitted up as a club, with a bar; upstairs will be the closest thing to a PX—smokes, candy, toiletries, items of civilian clothing, radios, that sort of thing, but no money; you can draw scrip against your pay.

“Now, let’s go get moved in. At 1800 hours, come to the mess hall, it’s the fourth building to your right from this one. Then I would suggest that we all sack in—although reveille here won’t be until oh six hundred, hours, we’ve got a lot to do and not too awfully much time to do it in.”

At his nod to Sam Jonas, standing in the rear, that officer half-shouted, “Atten-HUT!”

With a scraping and rattling of the folding chairs, the group arose and were dismissed.

Everyone opted for a private room; privacy for many of them had been rare and precious during the war years. There were three rooms owning private toilets, lavatories and sheet-steel shower stalls, and one was awarded to Betty, the largest already was piled with General Barstow’s gear, and they drew high-card for the third;Milo won with the ace of clubs.

He was unpacking his bags into wall and foot lockers when there was a knock on his door. Not even slowing down, he said simply, “Come.”

Second Lieutenant Elizabeth O’Daley, WAAC, strode into the room, came to a halt and seemed on the verge of snapping to and saluting before she remembered the reasserted rules of Barstow and forced herself back into an appearance of informality. Betty had come over from the States to Munich by way of England and Paris with then-Colonel Barstow when first he had set up his DP-screening operation there. She was a translator of Slavic languages and looked Slavic, despite her Irish name—big-boned and -breasted, dark-blond with fair, big-pored skin and eyes of a faded blue over wide-spreading cheekbones. She had been a WAAC corporal back then, and Barstow had been bumping her rank up ever since that time.

Holding out a broad, thick hand on the palm of which rested a package of Lucky Strikes, she said, “Milo, I prefer Old Golds, and my ration was these. Would you like to trade?”

Milo smiled and nodded toward the small table, on the top of which reposed the package of C-ration cigarettes, matches, field toilet paper and chewing gum.“Sure, Betty. I have no particular preference in smokes. Cigarettes are cigarettes, so far as I’m concerned.”

Sighing deeply, her big, heavy breasts rising and falling, she picked up the Old Golds and laid the package of Luckies in their place.“Gott sie dankt! You and I are the only two who didn’t get Camels, you know, and I can’t abide those so-called cigarettes; I’ve heard that the company makes them of what they sweep up off the cigarette-factory floor at the end of the day . . . and I can believe it. When I buy them, I get Fatimas, but they don’t pack those in C-rations, not ever.”

He shrugged. “Betty, I learned to smoke whatever came my way a long time ago. But move those things off the chair and sit down for a minute.”

When he had lit her cigarette and his own with his Zippo, he took a puff, then said, “You rode down from Holabird with Barstow, didn’t you? Yes, so tell me, do you have any idea why we’re here, wherever we are?Any idea just what we’re going to be doing?”

After exhaling twin streams of bluish smoke from her nostrils, Betty shook her head. “No, not really, Milo . The general is a very private man, you know, when he wants to be. All that I can say is that what-ever it is, he considers it to be damned important, to him, to the Army and to the country. On the basis of my knowledge of the man—and I’ve worked under his command for almost three years, now, ever since the Army found out I could speak and read and write four languages, plus English—I’d say that his attitude means that whatever we’re going to be doing will be of vital importance.”

“And that’s all you know, huh?” probed Milo. “You didn’t hear anything the whole trip?”

“Well . . . now that you mention it, Milo. See, I was in the back seat beside the general with Padre up front with the driver until we stopped for lunch, and almost the entire morning was devoted to one of their endless debates. The driver was a Volga German who had, he told me at lunch, lost numerous relatives in the Revolution and the various purges since, and I thought on several occasions he was going to just run that damned Cadillac off the road when Padre came out with certain of his incredibly naive stupidities. You know, Milo, I think that that priest honestly and truly believes that Premier Josef Stalin and Pope Pius XII are just alike.”

He shrugged again, tamping out his cigarette against the side of the butt can. “They may well be, from all I’ve heard, Betty. You must remember, both of them played footsie with Schickelgruber and Company until he fucked them over. Uh, sorry about that, but . . .”

She just grinned. “Don’t worry, Milo. WAACs use it too—it’s the most-used word in the Army, I think. But do you really think that? Do you really think the Pope and Stalin are conspiring to take over the world, like Padre says? I’ve just always thought he had a few screws loose, myself .”