A Man Called Milo Morai by Robert Adams & Ken Kelly

Author:Robert Adams & Ken Kelly [Adams, Robert & Kelly, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction; American, Science Fiction, General, Westerns, Fiction
ISBN: 9780451141286
Google: K75MAQAACAAJ
Amazon: 0451141288
Publisher: Roc
Published: 1986-02-04T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter VIII

"Jesus H. Christ on a frigging GI crutch, Moray," stormed Major Barstow in clear consternation. "Have you lost your mind? Not only is a linguist like you of immense value here to Uncle Sam, but you're in the safest, cushiest billet you'll find this side of the damned Pentagon complex. Man, with your talents and your cooperation, I can keep you here for as long as the war lasts. What is it you're after? Rank? I can bump you up to master, within a week, no sweat. You want a commission, hell, man, I can get you that, too, a direct one. Just give me a little time and you'll have it all."

"But, please, for the love of God, don't hit me first thing on a Monday morning again with such a line of lunatic nonsense like you wanting an immediate transfer to an outfit that I know damned good and well will likely be in that meat grinder they're running in Italy inside six months!"

Barstow kept at Milo up until almost the very moment that he shouldered his barracks bag and entrained for South Carolina. His final words were, "You're a nut, Moray, but I guess that without your kind of nuts, no war would ever get won. I've put the very highest marks I can in your file; that's all I can do, now. Here it is; it's sealed, that's GI regs. If you unseal it, for God's sake, do it carefully so you can reseal it easily, huh? You do as good a job for the bastards where you're going as you did for us here, you'll be wearing three up and three down soon, don't fret about it. Good luck, Moray. Try not to get your head or any other essential parts shot off."

The entire unit, from division on down, was still in a state of flux, none of the components completely filled in. The grizzled master sergeant who checked Milo in still wore his Ninth Infantry Division patch. When once he had torn open the sealed records and seen that he was dealing with a Regular rather than another johnny-come-lately uniformed civilian, he unbent considerably and offered Milo a cigarette and a chair across the cluttered, battered desk from him.

"Thishere Colonel Stiles, he must know where some fuckin' bodies is buried to git that bunch in Holabird to let you go, Moray. You know him? What kinda fella is he? West Pointer?"

"Not hardly," Milo chuckled. "He's a gentleman, but he was a tech when the war started, first sergeant of a training company. I was his field first… and his buddy."

The master looked pleased at this news and nodded. "A Regular, huh, like us?"

"About thirteen, fourteen years service, sarge, all but the last two years of it in the ranks. He's hard, but he's fair, too, doesn't play favorites. You give him what he wants, what he thinks you can do, and he'll take good care of you. What else can you ask of an officer?"

The master shook his head.

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