MATT HELM: The War Years

by Keith Wease

  Daryl looked at me and asked, "Are you all right?"

  Well I was still standing, if a little in shock, so he hadn't hit my heart. And if I had internal bleeding, I figured I might as well bleed to death in a safe place, which this wasn't going to be in a few seconds, so I nodded. "So far, at least. Let's get out of here."

  We were lucky, as no one - at least no one who'd talk to the Germans - saw us as we made our way back to the café. Daryl had to help hold me up the last few steps, as I was beginning to feel weak from the pain. It's funny how a bullet always hurts more five minutes later than when it first goes in. Adrenaline, I guess.

  I was lucky enough that nothing important had been damaged and there was not much internal bleeding, so with a little disinfectant and a bandage, I stayed alive long enough for a doctor back in London to remove the bullet and patch me up. There wasn't even any infection to worry about, just some bruised feelings - I got essentially the same lecture from Mac that Daryl had received on our first mission together. Well, he might be a bastard, but at least he was a consistent bastard.

  .

  Mac didn't put much stock in physical condition. He believed a man's mental condition is what counts and his policy was to get a man back into action as soon as possible and not let him spend too much time pondering his wounds. Two weeks later he sent me back across the Channel with Vance. I had a half-healed bullet hole in my chest, and Vance had his arm in a sling. Mac figured it made our impersonations of German soldiers on convalescent leave much more convincing, and there's no evidence that it affected our performances adversely.

  Chapter 13

  In the early part of 1944, about six months after I took that first bullet in the chest, I was sitting in Mac's office listening to the most godawful, beat-around-the-bush briefing I had ever heard from Mac. Normally, he was not one to waste words explaining a mission. I mean, the facts of life had been pretty well taken for granted by then, especially among us senior agents - anyone who had survived the first year working for Mac was, by definition, a senior agent. After the first few months I pretty much ran my own shows and, although I had been in charge of two team efforts, I was mostly used in a lone-wolf capacity.

  Of the original nine members of my training class, only three were still on active duty with us. Stella had been the first to die, of course, and Mark was the only one of us that never "graduated." However, in late 1943 we lost both Gene and Derek on a botched joint mission. They managed to get into position and make the touch, but the reinforcements didn't arrive. British intelligence had set up a rescue mission in conjunction with the French Resistance. One of BI's people had been taken prisoner and they wanted him back - he supposedly had some vital information our side needed, but had been foolish enough to be captured alive. Our part of the mission was to take out the two guards on the roof of the building in which the British agent was being held and, when the assault force attacked on that signal, provide back-up firepower.

  The reason I knew so much about that particular mission was that I had originally been scheduled to go with them, but had been pulled off when something else came up requiring my specialized talents. We found out later that the mission had been canceled by the field commander, due to the arrival of some unexpected reinforcements at the building. The messenger dispatched to inform Gene and Derek of the change in plans was just late enough to witness the debacle. While our two people waited for the nonexistent assault to begin, a machine gun crew, which wasn't even supposed to be there, located their position and got them both. It seemed that my luck was still holding - I could have been there with them

  Just over a month later, we lost Charles due to just plain bad luck. He and Nick were jumping into France when his 'chute got tangled in a tree. Before Nick could reach him to help, a German patrol spotted him and a quick burst from a machine pistol negated the necessity for any help on Nick's part. Some of us might have looked unkindly on the German target practice - a man tangled in a parachute some twenty feet up in a tree can hardly be considered a threat to anyone - but Nick took his missions seriously and wouldn't jeopardize one for the sake of a revenge that probably would have just got him killed. Nick was as close to the ideal of a cold, killing machine that I'd ever met. I'm not criticizing - as I've indicated previously, I kind of envied him his lack of emotional involvement in his work. All in all, he was a better man at the job than I, but I really wouldn't have traded places with him.

  As a matter of fact, Nick was our last casualty, exact status unknown. In January of 1944, he was sent on an infiltration mission. He was one of the best I'd ever seen at playing the part of a German soldier. He looked like one of Hitler's poster boys, tall, blond and Aryan, with blue eyes and masculine chiseled features. No one could be suspicious of such a fine-looking German boy. He was supposed to bide his time until he could make the touch look like an accident - there are several ways to do this, including a new kind of drug which caused a heart attack and couldn't be detected in the body unless an autopsy was conducted within hours. We never did find out what happened; our informant simply reported seven bodies being carried out of a Nazi headquarters building, one of them a Nazi staff officer who had been Nick's target. I don't know if Nick had made a mistake and simply took as many with him as he could or if he cracked and went on a suicidal rampage. Actually, we just assumed it was Nick - neither his presence nor death was ever confirmed.

  If you're wondering why I knew so much about some missions and virtually nothing about others, it had to do with Mac's personal policy. On a successful mission - or even an unsuccessful one, if the agent survived - he respected the security enforced by the "need-to-know boys in charge of war-time intelligence. However, when one of us died or was captured, he made a point of explaining why, within reasonable guidelines. He felt that, when one of us paid the ultimate price, the rest of us had a right to know that the effort was not in vain. And he never sent a spokesman, he told us himself, whoever was in base at the time. It somehow made it easier, the next time we went on a mission, to know that Mac cared about each one of us.

  My attention had wandered during Mac's hemming and hawing around the subject, and I realized he had asked a question. Something about would I accept a mission for reasons of vital importance to Allied security, even if the target was innocent.

  "Sir," I replied in exasperation, "with all due respect, what kind of pussy-footing bullshit is this!" This was as close as I'd come to insubordination, not to mention profanity - Mac seldom used any profanity, other than an occasional "damn" or "hell", and we were normally careful to avoid it in his presence - and I don't know who was the most surprised, him or me. I braced myself for the expected rebuke, but, after looking slightly startled for a moment, he actually seemed somewhat embarrassed. That's when I knew it was serious.

  Without waiting for his reply, keeping my voice steady, I said, "Perhaps you better tell me about it, Sir."

  "You're right, Eric, I should have known better ... but this is the first such request we've had."

  He paused for a brief moment and then began, sounding more like his normal self. "Last week a gentleman we will call Sir Robert was abducted from his country home outside London. Sir Robert's actual rank and position in the Allied Command structure have not been disclosed to me. Nor has anyone specified the exact nature of the information he has in his possession, I assume in his head. I am, however, informed that said information is not only vital to our prosecution of the war effort, but potentially disastrous to that effort if it falls into the wrong hands. So much so that British Intelligence has compromised several of their intelligence networks and agents in France in a desperate attempt to locate Sir Robert.

  "In this they succeeded, although not without cost. Apparently several good men and women have already died, getting this information out without the usual precautions. Fortunately, no one was captured alive, so the Germans are not aware that we have located Sir Robert. After the fact, British Intelligence discovered that Sir Robert was a speci
fied target, ordered by Berlin, and is scheduled to be transported to Berlin for interrogation. Apparently, the information Sir Robert possesses is of such importance that someone high in the German Command wants to take personal credit for obtaining it, so it is doubtful that any serious attempts at interrogation have taken place."

  I thought I had it figured out by now. This was the Volunteer Mission - we always capitalized it in our minds - the one where the odds were so bad that even Mac wouldn't order us to accept it. "How much time do we have to get him out?" I asked. I resisted adding, 'and what are the chances of us getting out?' although I'll admit I thought it.

  This time Mac surprised me, more than a little. "Not get him out, Eric. It has been decided that a rescue attempt is impossible. You are to take him out. Sir Robert is your target."

  He was watching me closely. I paused for a long minute, thinking it over. Then I asked, "This is for real, Sir? I mean, the information is that important, not just some of their security games?" I was hedging, and he knew it, but he answered anyway.

  "From what I was told, and by whom I was told it, I would have to say yes. Also, the efforts that are underway to give us a chance to get to him, would seem to underscore the importance placed upon this mission."

  I started to ask him what efforts, but realized that would be more hedging. I had killed Germans, as well as a couple of German-sympathizers, not to mention a few assorted innocent bystanders, in defense of my country and its allies. Could I now, in good conscience, refuse to kill someone who - albeit innocently - threatened that defense? These guys who keep drawing lines never impress me very much. I know a dozen fisherman who'll let a trout fight its heart out against a nylon leader, but who are real proud of themselves because they've never shot anything in their lives. And then there's a man I know who'll shoot any bird that flies - ducks, geese, quail, doves, you name it - but he feels quite moral because he's never killed a big animal like a deer or an elk. And I even know a deer hunter who gets his buck every fall but who'd never dream of going to Africa and murdering a great big elephant just for sport, he thinks that's terrible. They've all got something they won't do, and it makes them feel swell. I've always prided myself on not being hypocritical and drawing arbitrary lines for myself. Was this so much different?

  I drew a deep breath and said, "How do I do it and how much time do I have?"

  Chapter 14

  Four days later I was on a hill just outside the small French town of Falaise, looking down on a magnificent French mansion that was surrounded by the entire German Army - well that was my initial impression. They looked like they were expecting an armed invasion, which confirmed what Mac had told me.

  After I'd agreed to do the job, he just continued as though nothing unusual had happened.

  "You've got almost a week, at least that's what the weather people are saying. Beyond that, it's anybody's guess, so to be safe let's say four days from now. We've stepped up our flight operations from Falaise, where Sir Robert is being held, to Paris to emphasize our search for him. The Germans know how badly we want him, due to the continuing inquiries being sent down the line by British Intelligence, as a cover. We're pretty sure they have no idea we've located him and are just waiting for the next storm front to come in before they move him.

  "As to how, it's got to be a long-range rifle job, over four hundred yards, I've been told. I've already got the rifle and the necessary materials for you to hand-load the cartridges and you'll have three days to get the feel of it. We'll drop you Tuesday night. You'll be met and escorted to the area. Try to make the touch during the day Wednesday, saving Thursday for a safety zone."

  "Why during the day?"

  "Apparently there's a sort of courtyard on the roof of the first floor. We don't know where in the house Sir Robert is being held, but he's allowed out on that courtyard two or three times a day, under guard, of course. That's the only time you'll have a chance at him."

  "If they know that much, why don't they just bomb the house."

  Mac said wryly, "You seem to have a higher regard for the accuracy of our bombers than our British friends do, Eric. I'm told that a target that small could only be hit for certain, at least on the first try - and we wouldn't get a second - if we sent so many bombers that they would probably guess what's coming and get out before we got there. Even if we hit the house, there is no guarantee that we'd get Sir Robert, and we might never find him again."

  "Okay, I guess I'm it. I suppose there's been some thought given to getting me back out? Well, I guess I'll find that out when I get there. Where's the damn rifle?"

  "Out at the base, waiting for you at the long-rifle range."

  "A little confident, were we?"

  "Let's say that I thought you would do the right thing."

  I got up and started out the door. He stopped me. "Oh, Eric?"

  "Yes, Sir?"

  "Thank you. You're the best rifle man I've got."

  It was my turn to be a little embarrassed. To cover it I grinned. "De nada, as they say back home."

  My contact, to my surprise, was British. His name - well, the name he gave me - was Ryland. As we worked our way to the target area, he told me he was a French citizen, having lived in Falaise for over ten years. He was married to a French girl and ran a small store in the city. He was what they called an "in-place agent." Being British, he was watched by the Germans perhaps a little closer than otherwise, so he was not normally used as anything but a conduit for information being passed down the line. He was more involved in this case because he had to provide a hole for me to crawl into, after completing my mission, until it was safe to move me out of the country. As he put it, Falaise was a quiet little town without many Resistance resources. Besides, he was the one who had found Sir Robert and wanted to see it through to the end.

  He recognized my wary look - I'm not exactly thrilled, putting my life in the hands of a noncombatant. There was something about him, but I couldn't quite pin it down.

  "It's been a while," he said, "but I've had my share of the - shall we say - more violent pursuits. Not only in the Great War, but a few skirmishes here and there."

  Then I placed him. Not that I recognized him, but I knew the type. He was a spare, sinewy man in khakis, very English, with a bushy sandy moustache and sharp blue eyes under sandy brows and lashes. He was about twice my age, but moved younger, if you know what I mean. I looked for the gun, but couldn't see a bulge due to the loose jacket he was wearing. But it would be there, probably the same gun he'd carried for years and put away regretfully when he got married.

  Not that a shoulder holster isn't a neat rig for carrying a heavy weapon outdoors in winter; it is. It puts the weight up where it belongs, supported by a substantial harness, instead of down on

  a narrow belt that tries to cut you in two. You don't have to open your coat much to get at it if you need it, and the gun doesn't freeze up in the coldest weather. A good spring shoulder rig is surprisingly comfortable, the gun is safe even if you stand on your head, it's protected from the elements, and it doesn't get in the way around camp the way a belt gun will. The fact that it's relatively slow needn't worry the outdoorsman, who's not apt, these days, to meet a grizzly on the trail without warning.

  That's speaking of a big revolver carried by a hunter or trapper. When it comes to small, flat, inconspicuous automatics packed by competent-looking gentlemen with exaggerated British accents, you're speaking of a different matter entirely. I looked at him grimly. I knew him now. I knew what it was I'd smelled or sensed about him. It was the smell of smoke, of gunsmoke. It never quite blows away. He was a soldier of fortune, one of the armpit-gun boys.

  He stood looking at me for a long moment, his face expressionless; and it happened the way it sometimes does regardless of the shade of the skin or the color of the hair or the language spoken by the ancestors. I don't say that we became friends in that instant; but there's a relationship between fighting men that the nonviolent ladies and gentlemen of the world
can never understand, which may be why they fear us and pretend to despise us as old-fashioned and obsolete and dreadfully immoral.

  Fortunately, the hill on which we were poised was not part of the large estate surrounding the house and was badly overgrown with lots of trees and thick underbrush. We both had some rips and tears in our clothing, not to mention our exposed skin. I couldn't have asked for better cover. We had arrived at dawn and Ryland had led me to the vantage point he had been using to observe Sir Robert's movements. I couldn't see anything wrong with it and told him so. The only thing that concerned me was that the courtyard he pointed out was a lot further away than I'd been led to believe.

  I looked at him. "I was told the range would be approximately four hundred yards. About three hundred seventy of your meters. You grow some damn long meters in this country, Ryland."

  After making sure I had a clear shot with no obstructions, we backed down out of sight and I reached for the oiled canvas bag containing the rifle. I pulled the long zipper and started pulling out packing material, hoping the heavy bastard hadn't been jarred too much when I landed. We had used an oversized 'chute to minimize the impact and I was able to land on my feet, having missed any trees in the process.