Robert Adams - A Man Called Milo Morai

Milo nodded. “Yes, Sergeant Webber, I agree with the general. I think you’ll make a fine professional soldier.”

Milo came fully awake suddenly, with the knowledge that there was another person in the room with him, moving quietly, sounding too light to be Jethro or Webber. The light steps seemed to be approaching the bunk on which he lay. Looking out into the near-darkness through slitted eyelids, Milo sent his fingers questing to find the hilt of the knife strapped to his right thigh. With as little motion as possible, he drew out the honed length of steel blade, took a good grip on the tape-wrapped hilt and then waited, tensely, for whatever was to happen next.

A presence hovered above him for a few heartbeats of time, then receded, and he half wondered if this was only a waking-dream sequence, for all that he knew it to be very real. The bright white glare of light that burst through the briefly opened door to the outer room made it impossible for him to see anything much of the short person who exited and then drew shut the portal. But by straining his ears, he could hear the low-voiced conversation in the other room, and he could even identify one of the speakers, all of whom were conversing in Parisian French.

“He sleeps, M’sieu General. I was about to waken him, but thought that I first should ask you.”

Jethro’s voice replied, “You were wiser than you realized, m’petite . Had you laid hand to him he might very well have killed or at least crippled you.”

“This Captaine Milo Moray, he is so much a brute, then?” inquired a second, less husky female voice. “The general should have mentioned this thing earlier.”

“No, no, Angelique, he is a good man, a very good man, a true gentleman. It is only that he has been almost without any hiatus in combat since last year. And, ma cherie , one never should be so unwise as to awaken a man fresh from active warfare suddenly and unexpectedly in a darkened room.”

The woman called Angelique still sounded unconvinced. “It might be wise if we were to not waken him, mon general , for our Nicole is too precious, too vulnerable, to become the toy of some brutal and uncaring man. She is a gentle girl, convent-reared, and despite all that was wrought upon her by the Boches, all that I have taught her since, she still is far from hardness. No, mon general , I will give you back your gold and you will please to send Nicole and me back to Paris.”

“You are of a wrongness, Angelique,” sighed Jethro, “and I am surprised that you will not believe me on this matter, for I have never lied to you about anything. Have I? But I will make you a proposition: I will awaken Captain Moray and then introduce Nicole to him. We will leave them alone, and should he offer her any violence at all, I will double the gold I gave you and immediately have you both taken back to Paris. Is that agreeable, Angelique?”

There was more conversation after that, but Milo had once more sunk into sleep. When next he opened his eyes, the room was flooded with the white light of a gasoline lantern and Jethro was shaking the bunk and saying, “Milo? Milo! Come on, old buddy, come out of it. It’s me, Jethro. Wake up and have some champagne.”

Fifteen minutes later, Milo sat cross-legged on the head of the bunk, twirling his empty champagne glass between his fingers, watching the slim young woman who sat stiffly on the foot of the bunk, sipping at her own glass and puffing nervously at a Camel, carefully avoiding his gaze or at least refusing to meet it. From the other room could be heard an unclear mutter of conversation and squeakings from the bunk that had apparently been moved in while Milo slept. In the light of the lantern, he could see that she was pale, her dark eyes were enormous, her breathing was fast and her hands very tremulous.

He leaned a bit toward her and extended a hand. She flinched from his touch, then returned her body to its former position, clearly steeling herself for whatever. But Milo sat back and spoke to her softly in French.

“Nicole, you need have no fear of me. I have been many long months without a woman, but it has not killed me, nor will I be injured by further abstinence. Had Jethro not brought you in to me, I still would be sleeping, and I can easily go back to sleep still, for I am very weary. I do not even need the bed; you may have it for the rest of this night. The floor is carpeted—just let me take one blanket and I will be fine. I am not really accustomed to such luxury as this anymore.”

He was as good as his word. Taking a last long drag, he stumped out his cigarette, then rolled off the bunk, taking a GI blanket with him. When he had turned down the lantern as low as he could without extinguishing it altogether, he removed the seat cushion from the chair, found a section of carpet that looked good, lay down and wrapped himself in the blanket and presently was softly snoring.

Not until she was certain that the strange officer was truly asleep did Nicole Gallion even begin to relax. She now knew that all of this had been a grave mistake, that she never should have let the worldly-wise Angelique talk her into essaying such a thing, no matter how much the general had offered to pay. Angelique had reassured her over and over on the way from Paris how easy it would be to earn her share of the gold sovereigns. She said that she had acquaintances who had known and done business with the general twenty years ago, before the war, who said that he was a very rich man and generous.

But now she knew that she could not go through with it, any of it. Not even for the vast number of francs that the gold and cigarettes would bring could she force herself to do this thing. She would just have to try to find some other way to provide for Papa—poor Papa, once so big and strong and vital, now all twisted and bent, crippled and blinded by the savageries of the Gestapo, yet still too proud to accept the charities of his fellow countrymen.

She did not want to disrobe, but reflected that as she had but the one presentable dress it were best not to sleep in it. In search of a hanger for her garment, she eased open the door of a narrow wardrobe and found a man’s silken robe, far too big and long for her, of course, but it would serve as a fine sleeping garment.

The girl quickly removed her slip of American parachute silk, hung it beside the dress and, now covered in gooseflesh, slipped into the smooth, soft robe and padded over to the disarrayed bunk with its promise of thick blankets, not even thinking of extinguishing the lantern. As she slid under the sheet and blankets, she encountered a long, hard object. In wonderment, she drew the length of razor-sharp, needle-tipped, blue steel from out its rigid case, tested edge and point, then returned it to its case with the hint of a smile. Snuggling against herself, the knife close to her small hand, she settled for sleep.

The moans and whimperings brought Milo out of his sleep. His first thought was, “Oh, God, who’s been wounded now?” Then, “Why the hell didn’t they turn the poor bastard over to the fuckin’ pill-pushers instead of bringing him down here into the CP bunker?”

The moans and whimperings continued unabated. He rolled over and sat up, looking in the direction from which the pitiful sounds were emanating. He wondered for a moment where he was and who the young girl on the bunk was, her pale face twisted, with tears squeezing out from beneath her closed eyelids, shaking all over, shaking hard, like a foundered horse. Just as he remembered, the girl began to speak, both in French and in halting, schoolbook German.

“Oh, no, no, no, please, I beg of you, do not hurt him anymore. Oh, please, mein Herr Hauptsturmfiihrer , for the love of God, he knows nothing of the things you are asking, neither of us do, we are not the people you seem to think we are.