Robert Adams - A Man Called Milo Morai

In the near future years, Milo was often to remember the crab lice episode and wonder about himself, about his decidedly unusual physiology. He was to wonder especially when those about him were suffering from the attentions of body lice, fleas, ticks, bedbugs, the various parasitic worms and leeches, while his flesh and blood and organs remained whole and inviolate. It was to be long, long into that then-unguessed future that he was to add together a myriad of assorted facts—his patent immunity to all of mankind’s diseases, his ability to survive clearly fatal wounds by way of unbelievably rapid regeneration of tissues, his complete freedom from parasites, and many another notable curiosity—and begin first to question and then to believe himself to be, as mad Major Jarvis’ intuition had told him, either superhuman or not truly human at all.

The training went on and on, becoming more and more realistic and dangerous for the trainees, which now included almost every one of the nine hundred and seventeen officers and men in the battalion. Simply for the hard exercise, Milo joined them whenever he could find or make the time to do so. He soon found that it heartened the men to find an officer or a senior noncom wriggling among them in the cold, sticky mud under the fanged wire, while the .30 caliber machine guns fired ball ammunition bare inches overhead, so he not only made more time to join the training exercises himself, but encouraged others to do so in the interests of heightened morale.

Early in February 1944, Jethrq and the officers of his staff were summoned to a series of meetings at regimental headquarters. A week later, the division engineers arrived with trucks and tools and boards and plywood with which they quickly built on the frozen ground full-size mockups of landing craft, each one complete with a hinged front ramp of corrugated steel. The experienced, hardworking men had the mockups completed before the day was out, then moved on to the next battalion on their list.

On the following morning—fortunately, one of the rare, bright, sunny days—this newest phase of their training was commenced. And the training continued despite the very .worst of weather conditions—weary officers and men burdened down with full packs, personal weapons, heavy weapons, steel boxes and wooden cases of munitions and explosives, cartons of field rations, spools of commo wire and field telephones and all of the other impedimenta of modern, mid-twentieth-century warfare. They trooped into the wooden boxes and arranged themselves as ordered, sitting or squatting or kneeling on the slick, wet, muddy boards in the damp fog or cold drizzle until the command came to arise and exit down the dirty, slippery ramp, then trudge back into the roofless structure to do it all over again. Milo participated in this training, too, and was soon to be very glad that he had done so.

In early May, Jethro suddenly appeared. Framed in the doorway of Milo’s private cubicle of the Quonset hut that housed Headquarters Company, Battalion, he beckoned, saying, “Get your jacket and come with me. We need to talk … privately.”

When Milo had driven the jeep out to a spot sufficiently far from the other humans for Jethro’s satisfaction, he switched off the engine and turned in the seat to face his old friend. “So? Talk.”

Colonel Stiles sighed. “Milo, I still can’t get you commissioned. I can’t understand any of the fucking mess and neither can regiment or division or even corps, for chrissakes. They all figure there’s a fuckup somewhere in the War Department records, and for want of anything more certain or concrete, I guess I just have to agree with them. I’m sorry. I did try.”

“So, what the fuck does it matter, Jethro? Am I demanding a fucking bar? Hell, I’m happy right where I am, in my present grade, doing the job I’m doing.” Milo was puzzled, and his voice reflected that.

Stiles just sighed again and shook his head sadly. “It matters, Milo, because of this: I’m leaving the battalion soon—division staff calls, and I’ve put them off for about as long as I can. The man who’s coming in to replace me will be bringing along his own adjutant, sergeant major and H&H first, which is, of course, his right and privilege and much better for all concerned, since he and they will no doubt work more smoothly together than he would with strangers.”

Milo frowned. “So what happens to John Saxon, Bill Hammond and me?”

“I was told I could bring up to three officers of company grade with me to my new posting and job, Milo. Bill’s commission is in the mills, and I’d hoped yours would be too, by now, but … Hell, Milo, are you sure, are you fucking positive you don’t know of any reason why somebody somewhere for some fucking reason would be disapproving all the damned commission requests I’ve sent in on you over the last few years? So I can’t take you along in your present grade. If you want to take a bust down to corporal, I might—might, mind you—be able to justify you as a driver, but it’s a mighty long chance and too fucking much risk, I think, for you to sacrifice your stripes for.”

“So, you’ve found a slot for me, Jethro. Right?” Milo asked tiredly.

Stiles nodded once. “I have. Did you hear about the cases of spinal meningitis in Charlie Gompany? Yeah, well, that left them minus two of their sergeants. You’ve met Captain Burke, of course.”

Milo nodded. “Yes, good officer. West Pointer, isn’t he?”

“Virginia Military Institute, Milo, pretty close to the same thing, and a whole fucking hell of a sight better than the frigging NGs and ROTCs and CMTCs we’re all so burdened with.

“Anyway, I’ve talked to Burke, and he would flatly love to have a noncom of your experience in Charlie Company. As you well know, you have the respect and admiration of every officer and man in this battalion. But his problem is this: his first sergeant has done and is doing as good a job as anyone could, and replacing him for no reason would make for a lot of fucking bad blood, and, of course, that’s the last fucking thing Burke wants with combat looming so close up ahead.”

“He wants me to take field first, then, Jethro? Okay, it’s a job I know, too,” agreed Milo readily.

“No, Milo.” Stiles spoke in a low and hesitant tone. “He’s got a good field first, too. He wants you to take over as platoon sergeant of his second platoon.” Then the officer added hastily and a bit more cheerfully, “But he swears, and you know it’s bound to be true, that if any fucking thing happens to the first or the field first, you’re the man for the slot.”

Milo shrugged. “Just so long as I go over in grade, don’t have to take a bust, Jethro, it’s okay with me—the diamond will come off very easily. It’ll be good to get back to doing some real field soldiering for a change, too. The way things were, it looked like I’d have sat out the whole fucking war behind a fucking desk.”

Although he sat slumped, Stiles looked and sounded much relieved. “Thank God you took it all so well, buddy. Look, I did all they’d let me do to sweeten the pill a little. You can take off your tech stripes completely and sew on a set of masters and you’ll go over to Charlie Company in that grade, too—I’ve already cleared it with Burke. And, Milo, believe me, I’m still going to keep pushing on a commission for” you. If any of us old Regulars deserves one, it’s you, my friend.”

Leo Burke, Captain, Infantry, USA, was a young man in his twenties. An even six feet in height, with dark-blond hair and snapping blue eyes, he was every bit as hard and fit as any man under his command. He spoke a cultivated English in the soft accents of his native Virginia; his handclasp was firm and his boyish smile infectious. He greeted the reporting Milo warmly, clearly desirous of real friendship with his new platoon sergeant.