Barstow’s “command” were at best an odd bunch. As most of them—and every one of the interviewers— rambled around in civilian clothes, Milo never knew a man’s or woman’s military rank, if any. They seemed to number among them almost as many differing national origins as the populations of the DP camps. Most of them proved friendly enough to Milo; those who were not, it developed, were not friendly to any of their coworkers. They all seemed to go by first names or nicknames— Ed, Henry, Bart, Judy, Red, Mac, Tex, Bob, Ned, Baldy, Padre, Tony, Betty, Buck, Earl, Dick-and so on.
The office abutting Milo’s office on the left side was that of a short, swarthy, black-haired man who, despite his name, Kelly, was clearly no Irishman of any description. The office on the right was that of a vaguely familiar, patently Germanic, serious-seeming young man called Padre. When he had time, Milo racked his brain in vain attempts to recall just where he had seen Padre before, and all that he could dredge up was the thought that it had not been within a military setting, but the when and the where always seemed to elude him.
Finally, one evening, when late interviews had seen both Milo and Padre arrive very late at the command mess hall, Milo seated himself across from the fair-skinned young man with the close-cropped blond hair and gray eyes. When he had eaten his food and was puffing at a cigarette while he stirred his coffee, he spoke.
“Padre, why are you called that? You’re no Spaniard, are you?”
Setting down his own china mug carefully, the young man said, “No, not a Spaniard, Milo, but truly a padre. I am a Roman Catholic priest, a chaplain in the U.S. Army. And yes, to anticipate your next question, you have seen me before. It was in Chicago. Do you recall Father Rüstung?”
Milo nodded. Now he remembered. “You’re the younger priest, then, Father Karl, wasn’t it? Someone wrote me that you’d joined the Army after Rüstung was arrested for his Bund activities.”
The blond man sighed. “Yes, the bishop felt that, under the understandable suspicion that I then was, it would be better for both me and Holy Mother Church if I indicated where lay my true loyalties by making this martial gesture. I acquiesced, of course. But the military is not my true vocation, I fear; I never have risen above the rank of first lieutenant, and I doubt that I ever will, either.”
“Hmmph,” grunted Milo. “You lucked into the right outfit, then. Tell Barstow you want rank and you’ll be a captain practically overnight, Padre. He hands out promotions as if they were candy bars, that man does.”
Padre smiled coolly. “No, I think not, Milo, though I thank you for thinking of me. But rank should be the reward of service and dedication to the military; I am definitely not dedicated to the Army, nor have I, I admit, served it very well in this war.
“But how have you fared, Milo, since Father Rustung forced you to leave Illinois?”
“Well enough, Padre, well enough, thank you. I joined the Army within a couple of days after I left Chicago, of course, and I had risen pretty far—I was a senior NCO— by the time the U.S. entered the war.”
The priest nodded. “So then they made you an officer.”
“Not quite,” Milo answered him. “I still was a tech sergeant when we landed in Normandy on D-Day. My promotions all were of the battlefield variety up until I joined Colonel Barstow. I was a captain of infantry when I came here; now, lo and behold, Barstow has waved his magic wand and I’m a major.”
Padre looked sympathetic. “And you feel a bit guilty, eh? You feel that, unlike your earlier advancements in rank, this present one was not fairly earned? Disabuse yourself of so silly a notion, Milo. Aside from the fact that because you fought and no doubt bled on occasion across a third of France and half of Germany you fully earned what little the military has grudgingly given you, were your talents not of inestimable value to Colonel Eustace Barstow, he would not have dragooned you from the infantry and installed you here and given you higher rank.”
“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.”