The major smiled coldly, showing uneven, scummy teeth. “Sergeant, am I really expected to believe that hooey? Please credit the Army of the United States of America with some small degree of intelligence. No, I am not one of your Sturmbannfuhrers, Moray, or whatever your real name is, but I can sniff out a phony just as quickly as they can, mister! Can you offer me a single, solitary shred of proof that you are who and what you say you are? You’d better be able to, mister, because since we arrested Sergeant Emil Schrader, you’re—”
“For the love of God, major, why did you- arrest Emil?” Milo interrupted, and military protocol be damned.
Anger smoldered briefly in the officer’s lackluster eyes and his mouth started to snap a reprimand at Milo’s interruption. But then the anger died away without a wisp of smoke and he shrugged and replied, “Because he’s a Nazi spy, Moray, that’s why, as if you didn’t know it all along. You’ve been heard time and again conferring with him in German. Those who heard you didn’t understand what you two were saying, but they did recognize the langauge when they heard it, you see.
“You and Schrader identified the men we planted in B Company immediately, didn’t you? I know that’s why you began talking in code, right? Still in German, but in code.”
“Major Jarvis,” said Milo, “I find it difficult to credit any of this. You think, truly, that Schrader and I are Nazi spies? That you might entertain some questions about my background is perhaps understandable, all things considered. But Emil Schrader’s background is completely documented from year one. He was born in Kansas; his family still lives and farms there. His parents came from Germany sometime back before the Great War, but all of their children are Americans, born.”
Jarvis nodded. “And Emil Schrader, his parents and all of his brothers and sisters saw fit to become members of the German-American Bund, as coy a nest of traitors and spies as this country ever has produced. His father, Franz Schrader, is high on the Kansas councils of these homegrown Nazi-lovers.”
In grim tones, Milo stated, “So you think that simply because Emil and his family joined and participated in an ethnic group, did so long before any American considered the Germans to be our enemies, he is a spy. Major, don’t you think that if the Nazis really wanted to use that poor dimwitted boy for a spy they’d at least put him someplace of more importance to the nation and the war effort than in a noncom slot in a basic training company? If you types are going after everyone who has some German in this division, you’re going to have your hands full and you’ll need to enlarge the post stockade to lock them all up.
“In addition to German and English, major, I speak Russian. Does that make me a Bolshevik? I speak Italian. Does that make me a Fascist? I speak Spanish. Does that make me a Falangist?”
Jarvis began to squirm in his chair. “Okay, Moray, okay. If you are what you say you are, I … we … are going to need some proof, some hard facts in corroboration.” He stood up. “You sit down at this desk and write me out a complete history of your life … well, of as much of it as you can remember. I want names, titles, dates, places, everything, Take all the time you need; you’re relieved of all your other duties until this is done with, understand? But tell it all, Moray. If we catch you in a lie, that’s it—you’ll go to jail with Schrader. Better get to it, sergeant.”
During the nearly forty days it took the authorities to run down and check out the persons whose names he had given in his handwritten account, Milo was allowed to carry on his work in B Company almost as normal. He was, of course, restricted in his movements; his pass had been lifted and he could not leave the post for any reason. Moreover, he was dead certain that he was under constant surveillance and that his quarters were being searched about once each week.
Not having been told not to do so, he had early on discussed the entire matter with Jethro, whose immediate reply had been, “Bullshit, Milo. You’re no spy and neither is Schrader, for that matter. I’ll see what I can do, and I’ll get in touch with James, too. But you play along with the silly bastards, at this point. It would seem that the lunatics have taken over the asylum.”
So Milo just sweated it out, doing his hard job as well as he could, breaking in a replacement field first and waiting for the other shoe to fall. He was in the field when the same armed duo sought him out, relieved him of his empty pistol and nudged him into their three-quarter-ton command car, then drove back to the division headquarters.
The file before Major Jarvis still was marked “Moray, Milo (n.m.i.),” but it was now much fatter and there were two other fat files of differing colors under it. When Milo had gone through the formalities, there was dead silence save for the tapping of a pencil point on the major’s still-scummy teeth.
At length, the officer spoke. “Moray, I could almost believe that I was right about you to begin with, but if I believed that, I’d have to also believe that some damned big people are also involved with you, both niilitary and civilian. So all I can say now is that, mister, you have some friends in some damned important jobs and places —two military medical officers, one of them a Navy captain, and a very well-connected JAG officer, to name but three of a lengthy list.
“Your story you wrote down for us checks out, all of it. But, Jesus God, mister, with the linguistic abilities you have, why in hell have you wasted so much time as a damned infantry sergeant? Christ Almighty, man, that’s the hardest, most thankless drudgery in the Army, what you’re doing. And we, my service, is desperate for people like you, and our need gets greater every day, too. I think I’m safe in promising you that if you make application for transfer to the Counterintelligence Corps, you’ll be a commissioned officer inside a month and you’ll probably outrank me before a year is up.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Milo. “But I’m happy where I am. I have no desire to be an officer. I’m needed in B Company, and my friends, my buddies are all there.”
“Not good enough, mister, not good enough at all,” snapped Jarvis. “Fuck what you want, mister, this is war! Go on back to your company, your friends, your buddies … for now. But I’m going to have orders cut transferring you and your abilities to where they’ll do the. most good for Uncle Sam and the U.S. Army.
“That’s it, Moray. Dismiss. Lieutenant Carter will give you back your sidearm as you leave and Sergeant Lawford will see you’re driven back to wherever you were when they found you.”
Milo’s hand was on the knob when Jarvis spoke once more. “You’re no longer restricted, of course, Moray, and you’ll notice a few faces missing from B Company in the next few days, too. I can no longer justify keeping them and you in place. But I still don’t trust you, mister. I think, I feel that there’s one hell of a lot more to you than meets the eye. My intuition tells me that there’s something damned odd about you, and my intuition is never wrong, so I mean to take you and just what you are or are not on as a sort of personal crusade … when this war doesn’t interfere, that is.
“Yes, you have scads of highly placed friends and supporters, but then so too do I, mister, and you’d better believe it, too. No matter how high you rise in rank, I’m going to keep digging at this secret of yours until I finally expose it and you.
“No, don’t turn that knob, not yet, Moray. This … this thing that I sense about you is … well, if certain persons heard all of what I feel about you, they’d most likely see me tucked away in some back ward at Walter Reed in a straitjacket for the duration of the war.