Robert Adams - A Man Called Milo Morai

“Well, if that’s the case, Padre,” demanded Milo, “then how is it you’re still a first John? You’ve been with Barstow longer than I have.”

A silent DP mess orderly approached and refilled their cups from a steaming two-quart stainless-steel pitcher. He was closely followed by another, who took away their trays, and Padre did not answer until they again were alone at their table.

“Colonel Barstow only bestows rank and perquisites upon those who serve him and his ends well, that or those he feels he may in future be able to use. He is a devious and, quite possibly, a very evil man, Milo. Moreover, I am firmly convinced that there is a great deal more to what he is doing here than appears on the surface, so I do my job and no more, flatly refusing to involve myself in any scheme that is not fully explained to me in advance. This attitude does not please Colonel Barstow.

“In addition, our two philosophies are diametrically opposed. Barstow envisions a worldwide empire controlled by the United States of America and policed by a huge American Army. He sees the seas and the oceans commanded by fleets of American warships, all bristling with guns, while vast aerodromes full of warplanes lie as an ever-present threat to any who would in any way resist American hegemony. He sees the entire earth, eventually, ruled under the blade of a ‘Made in USA’ sword. I find the entire premise obscene, and I have so informed him on more than one occasion, for should so capitalistic, so biantantly materialistic a nation as America seize and wield so much undeserved raw power over others for as long a time as he envisions, there would be only a long succession of nationalistically motivated wars and rebellions, uprisings and partisan activity in every part of the world for generations to come.”

“Then what is the answer, Padre? Should we just sit back and let the Russians have the rest of Europe, with maybe China and India thrown in? D’you think Pope Pius will enjoy taking orders from a Red commissar?” questioned Milo.

The priest smiled knowingly; patronizingly, he replied, “Milo, you have clearly been propagandized by the capitalist Red-baiters. There is not and there never has been any real conflict between the Church and the enlightened rulers of Russia, nor are churchmen and laity persecuted in Russia so long as they devote their religions and churches to God and remain apolitical.

“The cold facts are these, Milo: this must be absolutely the last war fought in the world. Love of God and love of mankind must in future rule the world, not Barstow’s American sword. I am not a Communist, but I recognize that Russia at least fought this war for nobler motives than did America and is, therefore, more deserving of world rule than is the United States, morally speaking. America’s obsession with making obscene amounts of profit for greedy merchants and businessmen and industrialists at any activity damns the nation and its people. On the other hand, were it properly and fairly presented to them, I feel certain that the vast majority of the world’s common people would prefer the rule of a secular government of their fellow common people like Premier Josef Stalin and a true—rather than a distorted or derivative—religion to spiritually sustain them in a world of peace and order. Barstow, of course, does not agree, but he is a self-serving lackey of the Washington power-hungry, profit-hungry, war-mongering, capitalist Jews and Protestants. You can see the truth of my words, can’t you, Milo? Of course, you can—you’re an intelligent man.”

Milo stubbed out his cigarette, drank down the last of the coffee, then leaned forward and said, “What I can see is that you, Padre, are as nutty as the proverbial fruitcake. Your old mentor, Father Rüstung, was a hellish mixture of religious fanaticism, anti-Semitism and Nazism. Well, you saw what happened to him, and it scared the shit out of you, so you went to the opposite extreme. You have become an equally hellish mixture of Catholic fanaticism, anti-Americanism and Communism. I can’t imagine why Barstow keeps a nut like you around. In his place, I’d ship you off to a room with soft walls. If you really, truly believe in this internationalist shit, Padre, you’d better keep your mouth shut around anybody with two brain cells to rub together, because your presentation of the wonderful world tomorrow and what it will be like will drive them straight into the arms of Colonel Barstow’s variety of American supernationalist.”

After that late-evening exchange, Milo took pains to avoid further one-on-ones with Father Karl, nor did the priest ever again try to speak with him alone. When, years later, he saw Padre again, Milo was to wish he had found a way to kill him quietly in Munich. But more than two decades was to trickle away before that meeting.

In August of 1945, the world entered into the Atomic Age, a deeply shocked, stunned, terrified Japanese Empire surrendered unconditionally, and the main event of what history was to call by the name of World War Two was concluded. That is to say, the real fighting was concluded, but not the vengeance-taking against the prostrate, disarmed and helpless Germans, Japanese, Italians, Austrians, Hungarians, Rumanians, Vichy French, anti-Communist Russians, Ukrainians and Albanians. Many heinous injustices were perpetrated in that brief spate of quasi-legal revenge, but those nations who came to be known as Western Powers were not to realize just how unjust they had been, just how much they had been misled by certain of their own leftist leaders and by the self-serving Russians until it was far too late.

On an icy January morning of 1946* Barstow called Milo to his office and said without preamble, “You’ve done good work for me, and this is reward time. Think you can get back to wearing uniforms again, Major Moray?”

“You’re sending me back to my unit, then, colonel?” asked Milo.

Barstow’s burgeoning potbelly jiggled as he laughed. “Not a bit of it, old bean. No, I’ve just been given my first star—Brigadier General Eustace Barstow now sits before you. Raaay!—and an immediate reassignment to Holabird. I’ll be taking along some of the personnel. Would you like to be one of my jolly crew?”

“You’re goddamn right I would, col … uhh, general, but I don’t want to accept under false pretenses, either. For reasons I explained to you shortly after I arrived here and for others as well, there is an even chance that I won’t stay in the Army at all, whenever the Powers That May Be decide that my hitch is up,” Milo told Barstow in complete sincerity. The new-made general’s reply almost floored him.

“Aside from your desire to fulfill your pledge to the late General Stiles and take care of his widow and their children, which pledge I assume you have translated into marriage to her and the Stiles fortune, what other pressing reasons have you to leave the Army, Milo?”

Milo just stared at the pudgy officer across the desk from him. Then, finally, he demanded, “General, are you some kind of fucking telepath? Have you been reading my mind? I’ve never once so much as mentioned Mrs. Stiles to you or to anyone else here in Munich, and to damned few back in my battalion.”

Barstow showed several gold dental inlays in a broad grin. “Heh, heh, heh, Milo, you forget, this is an intelligence operation, and I feel the need to know everything I can dig up about everyone connected with it and me. Not that I had to go any further than to certain files to find out about you and your rich widow lady.”

“What is that supposed to mean, general? Why should there have been a file on me? I was nothing more or less than a simple captain of infantry before you had me transferred in here,” said Milo in obvious puzzlement.

In place of an immediate answer, Barstow just looked at Milo in silence for a long moment, nodded brusquely, then got up and strode to the office door and opened it. To the uniformed first lieutenant behind the desk in the outer office, he said only, “Condition Four-Oh.”