MATT HELM: The War Years

by Keith Wease

  Morning came damned early - we were several hours ahead of Washington time and a couple more ahead of Arizona time. As I stumbled into the cafeteria looking for the coffee pot I was thankful for the sleep I'd had on the plane. From their looks, my companions were in worse shape than I was - apparently they had been unable - or unwilling - to sleep during the flight over. I sat down next to Nick, feeling he was the least likely to try conversation. I was right. He just nodded to me and continued with his breakfast. He was one of the icy ones, and in a way I envied him; he'd never have to worry about getting overly friendly with someone he'd been assigned to work with or protect - or shoot. He wouldn't think about philosophies and emotions and feelings. It was the safe and professional way to handle it. But ice is pretty brittle, and he'd crack some day; the cold ones always do. But that was in the future. Right now he was the right man for the job. In training, he was efficient and helpful and courteous, but always aloof. Right now I appreciated that quality.

  I looked down at his breakfast eggs and felt my stomach turn. I decided to finish my coffee before trying anything else. I wasn't the only one. Besides Nick, only the instructors were eating, over at a table by themselves. Everyone else still had that far-away stare that only comes from lack of sleep. Eventually a few of us tried some pastries, leaving the eggs to congeal. They were excellent and our spirits perked up a bit.

  The door opened and Mac walked in, looking fresh, well-rested and well-fed. I assumed he ate food like the rest of us, but had seen no evidence of it yet. He wasn't much for off-duty fraternization. He was still dressed like a banker. "Welcome to London," he said. "Or at least close to it. You'll see London in a few days, but for now, we have a treat for you. Now that your basic training is out of the way we can concentrate on a few necessary skills. I'm going to ask Charles to assist in this part of your training.

  As I'd indicated, Charles was a pilot. He grinned. "I get to teach these penguins how to fly?"

  "Penguins?" Mac asked with a frown.

  "You know, flightless birds. It's a flying joke."

  "To be sure. Thank you for enlightening me." I don't think it was sarcasm. Mac had a thing about language. He was always correct and precise in his wording and seemed to enjoy a nicely turned

  phrase. "No, they already know all they need to know about flying - how to get in an airplane. I want you to help teach them how to stop flying."

  Charles' grin got bigger if that was possible. "You mean parachute training?"

  "Precisely."

  "Damn!" I started to look around before realizing I had spoken aloud. There were a couple titters, but the rest were silent - and just a little scared, too. At least I wouldn't be alone, although I was most likely to be the most scared.

  "Come on, Eric," Charles taunted. "Parachuting is as easy as falling out of a plane." He was getting a kick out of this.

  "Another flying joke no doubt," I said wryly. "Okay, I'm game - but you get to wash out my pants."

  "Are we quite through?" interjected Mac. "We've got a lot of preliminary work if we're going to get in a drop before nightfall. You've got ten minutes to finish your breakfast; then we'll meet at the hangar." He turned around and left.

  It's a funny thing. I was scared, as usual, when we went up in the plane. I almost didn't make it out the door. I was hanging there and my hands refused to let go of the sides of the doorway until Vance put his shoe on my behind and pushed me out. It's a good thing we were hooked up to whatever it was called that made sure our 'chutes opened automatically. I was too scared to pull the cord myself. I almost screamed as I shot out of the plane but, fortunately, restrained myself - I'd never have lived it down.

  Then there was a sharp tug upward and I was floating gently and silently with most of my classmates strung out in the direction from which we'd flown. My nerves immediately settled down and I was no longer scared. Being supported from above and in the open air, I didn't get the feeling of vertigo you get when you look down a mountain cliff or a tall building - or, for me, an airplane. It was actually quite pleasant, especially since I could see a nice open field below me. Charles had explained that England was an excellent climate for jumping - that was the technical name - because it had nice, thick, moist air which gave us so much support it usually wasn't necessary to land and roll the way we'd just been taught to do.

  Mac had interrupted him at that point. "Let's not get too advanced, Charles. You will land the way you were taught. I don't want any broken legs today. Once you've got the experience to judge for yourselves, you can land any way you want to. For now, do it my way."

  Charles was right. I had a slight moment of panic as the ground came up to meet me, and I flexed my knees and rolled in the direction I'd been going, as we had practiced, but it really wasn't necessary. I hardly felt the jolt and had so little momentum I didn't really roll, just kind of fell over, feeling slightly foolish. There was just enough breeze that the parachute carried nicely over me and settled to the ground. I understand that, on a completely calm day, you've got to keep rolling to get out from under the 'chute, but it never happened to me.

  I gathered up the parachute and stuffed it into its pack - we'd learn to pack it properly the next day, we'd been told - and sat down waiting to be picked up. I was inordinately pleased with myself.

  Two days later we started practicing in rougher terrain and we all were a little scared - but that was a justifiable fear, more of a respect for danger. That I could handle. Any dangerous sport requires that kind of respect or you get hurt. While I found I could handle jumping, I still was scared up to the moment the 'chute opened. Then I was all right. Like I said - funny.

  Chapter 10

  After the first two weeks, we spent the next three months in a combination training and working role. Every once in a while, one of us would disappear for anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks and then return with a grim, but satisfied look. No one was allowed to discuss his mission or even indicate whether or not it was a success.

  In the meantime we were kept busy. We studied maps of France and Germany, both flat and topological, as well as aerial photos, until we knew the geography as well as, or better than, that of the U.S. We practiced our languages, practiced surveillance techniques on each other, both in London and in the country, and practiced stalking targets.

  The last part was fun, but messy. We were issued air guns, powered by carbon dioxide cartridges, which shot a rubber cylinder filled with dye. The object was to track your victim and get close enough to shoot him without getting shot yourself. To my satisfaction, I had the highest score - on both sides. I averaged over a ninety-percent hit rate when I was the hunter and over sixty percent when I was the victim, even when the instructors started taking part and placing bets.

  We also spent a lot of time working with various partners and teams in group efforts. When the exercise required two people, I found that Daryl and I worked the best together. Apparently Mac thought so too, because one morning we were both assigned a mission, the first time two of us had gone on the same mission.

  Fedder and Rasmussen woke us and drove us into London, stopping in a blind alley off a side street, next to a dilapidated, gray six-story building. We went in a side door and took a rickety, self-service elevator to the fourth floor - actually the fifth, by our reckoning. The British, in European tradition, start counting floors one floor up. The bottom floor is called the ground floor and the next one up is the first. I guess it makes as much sense as ours does, but it's confusing if the floors aren't clearly marked. The first time I used the stairs in one of their buildings, on a training exercise, the landing numbers had worn off and I counted as I went, ending up one floor too high.

  The resulting delay allowed Karl to catch up with me and, instead of being ready for him in my assigned location, he got me in the back before I even got in the door. With typical American arrogance, I cursed the illogical British numbering system and, being upset, went on to make a few choice comments about driving on
the wrong side of the street, a money system that was incomprehensible and the general lunacy of measuring things in kilometers, kilograms and liters. I was expanding the tirade to include the inconsistencies in the language when Karl wearily told me to shut up and pointed out that I had a lot of nerve, criticizing a culture that was based on traditions that were old before America, as a sovereign nation, even existed. Didn't I ever consider that it was America that was out of step with the rest of the world, insisting on being different, just out of contrariness? It was a lesson in tolerance that I never forgot and it gave me a new respect for Karl - once I cooled down, of course.

  Mac was sitting behind a wooden desk that, while neat, had seen better days. Behind him was a large window affording us a glimpse of a couple of bombed-out buildings. It was hard to see his expression due to the glare from the window, which, I guess, was the idea. One of the reasons we were all so loyal to Mac was his personal touch. If at all possible, he never sent any of us on a mission without doing so face-to-face. He once told me that if he was going to send a man out to die, the least he could do was look him in the eyes when he gave the orders. That was later on, and on this occasion, I was just flattered that the top man himself was doing the briefing. I assumed Daryl felt the same way, not that it was the type of thing one talked about.

  Mac explained what we were expected to do. "We have discovered, never mind how, that a certain German gentleman is going to be at a certain place in France in three days. The powers that be would like very much to talk to this gentleman. Furthermore, they would prefer that the German High Command did not know about this particular talk, as they might be of a mind to change their plans should they discover that the plans were compromised."

  I won't vouch for the exact words, but it was a fairly typical briefing: we were to do something specific for vague reasons, relying upon intelligence from an unnamed source and, usually, never knowing just how significant the mission was. Hell, half the time I never knew whom I was shooting; someone would point a finger and I'd pull the trigger.

  Mac went on. "Rasmussen is in charge. The French underground will get you where you need to go and provide a means of escape, afterwards. You are to not only capture the gentleman in question, but to leave a body in his place, dressed in his clothes complete with his papers to ensure proper identification. Once you are clear, Fedder will blow up the building to, shall we say, hinder a more positive identification of the body. I am assured that a suitable body will be provided by our French friends. Any questions?"

  He always ended a briefing by asking if we had any questions. This time someone did. Rasmussen asked, "How will we identify this gentleman?"

  "He is a Luftwaffe General. The uniform is quite distinctive, and we are told this is an unofficial visit, to be delicate. It is unlikely there will be any other high-ranking officers present to confuse the issue."

  We got the message.

  Two days later, having survived a night jump with no broken limbs, and being met on schedule, we were lying on a slight rise overlooking a small chalet surrounded by light woods. The trees were heavier in the location Rasmussen had chosen for our initial reconnaissance. Apparently, the General believed in security as there were two German soldiers standing guard outside the otherwise empty building, which made Fedder's job a little more difficult. Fortunately, the Germans didn't feel obliged to patrol the area, being content to sit on the steps leading up to the front door. We had taken the long way around in order to get a view of each side of the building before settling down to let Fedder do his part of the job.

  He was good. I never heard him leave and never caught a glimpse of him until he returned two hours later. He nodded at Rasmussen and we left.

  We spent the next day planning our strategy, storing up on our sleep and taking turns watching the chalet, just in case the General showed up sooner than expected. Rasmussen drew a perfect diagram of the house and grounds, even to the number and placement of the trees, from memory. I was impressed with his memory as well as his artistry - my attempts at drawing were limited to boxes and "X's", while his could have passed for a blueprint. The final details, of course, had to wait until we saw how many people the General brought with him.

  The Frenchman - Jacques was the name he gave us - looked on in boredom. With his lousy English and our lousy French, he didn't waste much time in conversation. Late in the afternoon, two of his associates appeared, carrying what was obviously a body, wrapped in a large sheet of burlap - at least it looked like what I used to call burlap. They nodded at us, accepted a cup of wine from Jacques, and left without a word. I assumed they had come at least part of the way by car or truck, but the road was far enough away we wouldn't have heard it. We unwrapped the body and I got my first look at a dead man, outside of a funeral. We had to look, of course, if for no other reason than to see for ourselves what our General would look like, in a general sort of way, of course - no pun intended. This body was supposed to bear a resemblance to the General if our plan - well, Mac's, to be precise - was to work. I could sense Rasmussen and Fedder watching as I looked down at the body - Daryl had seen one before, having made a couple of them that way himself. He just looked like he was sleeping until we turned him over.

  The damage was spectacular. His face wasn't there any more, having been bashed in with something heavy. I would have guessed a baseball bat, if they had any such thing over here. After gulping a couple times, I managed to hold my lunch down, hoping it wasn't too obvious. After a minute, I turned away and saw Fedder looking at me with a mixture of sympathy and approval, which made me feel a little better. Nobody said anything as I walked over and took a drink from the canteen.

  At first I was surprised at the method of assassination - there'd been no other wounds on the body - but then it hit me, and I had to admire their professionalism. Jacques - or at least his companions - knew what we were going to do and had carefully obliterated the one thing that could have given the masquerade away, the face. After all, no matter what the force of the explosion, it wasn't guaranteed to hit any victim in any particular part of the body. This way was sure.

  Shortly before sundown, having dined on standard Army rations, we were in place on the hill, along with the aforementioned body. Naturally, Daryl and I got that job. In the Army - or any other organization, for that matter - it's called "RHIP." If you don't know what that means, just ask any soldier.

  Just as the last light was fading, the General's car drove up and four people got out, including the driver, an enlisted man. The General was easy to spot, and the body was a very good match. The other two were junior officers, also from the Luftwaffe, judging from the uniforms. The three of them went into the house, leaving the driver to carry their bags and a couple cartons after them. After three trips, the driver came out and joined the two guards, carrying whatever passed as dinner. The three of them ate as someone inside turned on some music - a light waltz, if it matters. We were glad to hear the music as it would cover any sounds we made outside, if all went well.

  We settled down for a short wait, wanting them to get comfortable before we moved. After a whispered conference, we decided upon a plan of attack, which was immediately revised when the driver got up and climbed into the back of the car, presumably to sleep. That complicated matters a little, but Rasmussen told Daryl and me to take the guards, while he and Fedder took the driver. We normally might have waited for the ones inside to go to sleep, but we were expecting one or more women in the party, based on Mac's comment. When the General had arrived without female companionship, Rasmussen had decided to go early while we had fewer people to worry about, just in case the women were due later on. I remembered his remarks about playing the odds, during the training class. He was gambling that the women, if there were any women, wouldn't arrive in the middle of our attack, weighing that possibility against the admittedly harder job if we had more people to deal with, even if the extras were women with supposedly non-violent talents. I'd prefer it if everyone was asleep whe
n I went in the door, but was just as happy not to have to kill a couple of innocent - well, from a combatant standpoint - women. I don't know if that was part of his decision or not, but I was still new to the business. For me, that would have been the deciding factor.

  As it turned out, it wasn't a factor. No women were included in the General's plans, for that night, at least.

  With the two guards sitting on the steps, there was no way we could get sneak up on them before they raised an alarm. We had to get them with silenced pistols and hope they didn't scream as they were hit. For this purpose, Daryl had been issued a .22 Colt Woodsman identical to mine - I'd kept the one I'd admired during my initial training with Vance. The speed of sound is 1,088 feet per second. It was discovered a while back that for maximum accuracy an ordinary .22 bullet must not be driven faster than that. So farm kids shoot rabbits and squirrels with .22 caliber projectiles that scream along at around 1,200 feet per second, but expert small-bore target shooters settle for something like 1,050. This has another advantage of more importance than championship accuracy to the sinister folk in our line of work. A silencer can muffle the noise of the powder exploding inside the gun, but it can't do anything about the crack of the bullet, outside the gun, passing through the sound barrier. Keeping the bullet velocity subsonic is, therefore, essential to silencing a gun effectively.