Cold Lonely Courage

by Soren Petrek

  Madeleine spread out the remnants of the fire and covered them with dirt, making sure there was no trace left. She took her blanket and walked to the rear of the cave where she had discovered the entrance to another, much larger chamber. She squeezed through the opening and lowered herself onto a bed of grass that she had accumulated over the times she’d visited. A man, especially one with a gun, would have one hell of a time getting to her. She could stay inside and shoot many Germans if they tried it. If they used grenades then they’d probably end up sealing the entrance anyway. If that happened she hoped there was another way out. She was provisioned and there was a natural spring farther back. As she drifted off to sleep she found herself dreaming of home and her parents. She wondered what other desperate souls over the centuries had used the cave as a sanctuary. She said a quiet prayer and went to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Horst Stenger stood inside the office and stared down at the two corpses of the Nazi Gestapo officers. He was a regular army major and a criminal investigator. His authority was all but autonomous as Berlin’s fear of insurgency increased in every quarter. He was often called in to look into such matters, and lately there seemed to be more work. He sighed as he thought of his civilian job before the war in Berlin, working in an organized police force as a detective with a solid reputation for solving difficult crimes. Vichy had called him in to avoid the Gestapo simply rounding up a bunch of civilians and shooting them. His first order of business was to declare this an outside professional assassination and not the work of any local Resistance group. That would be easy. He knew who had done this. As soon as the police officers had described the young girl who had mysteriously disappeared he had known who he was after. In his circles, she was known as the Angel of Death. An apt name, he thought, as she seemed to target the Gestapo and SS almost exclusively. He smiled inwardly as he thought of the religious analogies of the whole thing. You butcher innocents and God sends down one of his less compassionate angels to straighten things out. The description was usually the same: a young beautiful girl, on the petite side. She was undoubtedly the type of girl that would blind recollection with her beauty. It was an odd notion, but men were men. They simply acted differently in the presence of a dramatically beautiful woman. But this one never seemed to be described in exactly the same way. Nor did she always follow the same procedure. Most of the time she wasn’t seen. Still, when he read the reports, he knew it was her. Many people are killers, but few are surgical assassins of her caliber. He shuddered a bit at the notion that one so young could be so deadly. He hoped that her work was a reaction to some atrocity and not a fondness for killing. He worried that she would extend her killing to those less deserving of it. Therefore, he needed to stop her.

  His attention turned to the hysterical screaming directed his way by Major Gunter Von Schmelling, a particularly annoying Aryan superman who was in charge of the SS in this portion of southern France. At least the man had some sense: he yelled from a distance. Stenger was a war hero, and a harder man than blond boy Schmelling. He’d personally punched more than one Gestapo officer. He hated the perversion of his army the SS represented. They were maniacal in their belief of their racial superiority. Their reputation was as tough and determined soldiers. The SS deployed on the Russian front had killed thousands of civilians with no compassion. They had a well-deserved reputation for ruthlessness. Clearly the most dangerous patients had gained control of the asylum. How had his country allowed this to happen? What had been a movement of national pride had become a wave of brutality, blind to anything but devotion to a poisoned cause.

  He sighed and thought of the angel of death, the assassin the French called L’ange de la mort. She’s probably my daughter’s age, he thought. How many young men and women in Germany would come running to defend their families and homes? All of them, he hoped. When he was her age, he’d been at the Maine, a ghastly horrible memory of screaming and death. Germany, England, and the Americans had sacrificed a generation to move their trenches inches at a time. These Gestapo were the criminals from his civilian past, set loose to satisfy the whims of a dictator. He wasn’t surprised at the tenacity of the French Resistance. These were the sons and daughters of the men he’d fought against. They were as hard as nails, and patriotic. France had been taken because France was still tired of war. Hitler’s Blitzkrieg came from careful planning and the pride of the defeated. They had destroyed two armies, the Polish and the French, each with more than a million men. Apparently, surprise worked well. He thought of the Japanese and Pearl Harbor. That was a mistake. He remembered the courage of the doughboys. They were farmers just like those in the large family he came from. They were probably his cousins. Americans, when angered, are the sum of their people. They were industrious and driven. And they were on their way.

  He took two steps towards Von Schmelling and said, “Major, you are standing in my crime scene. I do not care what you want me to do. I know my duty and have done it well, long before you tortured your first pet. You raise your voice to me again and we will meet on the field of honor.”

  Dueling had been a thing of the past for some time in Europe, but Von Schmelling knew what the detective meant. In addition to his skills in investigation, Stenger had been a marksman in the first war and was known to practice every day. Von Schmelling hated the old warriors he couldn’t intimidate, especially the ones he feared.

  “If you can’t catch this bitch, then we’ll just start shooting these sheep, Stenger!” Von Schmelling was well past hysterical. The other soldiers looked at him, wondering if he was going to pop.

  “Well, Major, you could. But then the Field Marshall would undoubtedly have me arrest you. I would, of course, have to detain you while your appeal made its way through channels. Cherblinka would be a fine place for your stay. Say in the general population,” Stenger said, poking Von Schmelling with his threat. A flicker of bowel-chilling panic passed through Von Schmelling’s eyes. He knew this crazy bastard would do it. Put him in with the Jews in the worst concentration camp in the region. They would eat him alive, slowly.

  “Just do your job! Berlin will sort you out in time!”

  “Before or after the Americans come back to France? You see, they’ve been here before. I can assure you that they do not like to pay for the same real estate twice. I am sure you SS boys will have every opportunity to show your worth in the face of allied armor,” he said, his voice dancing with sarcasm. Like most men his age, Stenger knew he’d already won the exchange. His silence was more painful than any further comment he might offer.

  Over to Stenger’s right his second in command, Captain Willi Peterson covered his mouth with a gloved hand. Where Stenger was tall and lean, Willi was smaller and compact with dark hair and short balanced limbs. He held himself with an easy fluid grace. He had the look of a prizefighter who won more than he lost. He stifled a laugh and tried to keep from shaking. He chided himself for laughing at the image of Stenger casually raising his pistol and shooting Von Schmelling. There was nothing overtly humorous about that, but he just couldn’t help it as he pictured Stenger dropping the idiot like a cow on a kill floor. As he got himself under control, he decided it was best not to mention this particular mental picture to anyone but Stenger. Willi had been with Stenger in the trenches and knew he would shoot Von Schmelling without hesitation.

  The SS major spun on his heels and stormed off. Some of the other officers in the area smirked as he left. It was a pity, Stenger thought, that these fools were leading the new German army. We could have retaken some land and been strong. All the rest was arrogance and madness. He glanced around the room and knew he’d find nothing. Catching the Angel would be about anticipation. Be that as it may, was it a good idea to chase a female panther in the dark?

  Von Schmelling was in a foul mood after his run-in with Stenger. Fool, he thought, the Reich will never be defeated. We will rule for a thousand years. Von Schmelling was a true believer. After a childhood filled with bullying and
anti-Semitic poison fed to him by his aristocratic parents, he was a natural for the SS. His family name and blond Aryan looks assured him a meteoric rise to the top. His superiors liked his results and supported the murder and torture he used to obtain information. He rarely tortured directly, choosing to observe instead. He was fastidious about his appearance and didn’t want to dirty himself by touching an inferior being.

  “Take me to the interrogation center,” Von Schmelling shouted to his driver. He loved to have soldiers at his command. These two were like robots and did precisely what he told them, when he told them, without pause or compassion. He had chosen them for their pure Aryan lineage and ruthless nature. Occasionally as a treat he gave them prisoners to do with as they pleased, as long as they disposed of their bodies when finished. Generally there was little left for disposal.

  The major’s staff car drove up to an imposing building that looked like a castle but was, in fact an ornate mansion, formerly owned by a well-to-do French family who had been permitted to relocate to a summer residence until Germany no longer had a need for their home. To the Germans aristocracy commanded respect and it was usually afforded. By all accounts they did not create any problems and had provided some assistance to their conquerors in exchange for assurances that their wealth would not be plundered in their absence.

  Von Schmelling strode quickly through the front door and paused only long enough for a valet to take his outer wear and hat.

  “Bring Gaston Marcher to his wife’s cell immediately, sergeant,” Von Schmelling said, almost pleasantly.

  A brutish SS sergeant snapped his heels together and smirked in anticipation of some sport. As he lumbered out of the room he had to turn slightly to get his shoulders and back through the narrow doorway. It was a wonder his knuckles didn’t drag on the floor when he walked.

  Von Schmelling descended a flight of stairs that led to a vast cellar that had been converted to a number of cells and rooms that neither saw the light of day nor allowed any sound to escape. Von Schmelling stopped in front of a cell and gestured for a uniformed guard to open the door. A small light bulb illuminated the room and showed a young woman huddled in the corner, sitting on a filthy mat and shaking with fear. Von Schmelling knew she had already been tortured because he had ordered it, along with strict instructions not to damage her appearance unduly. That usually meant having the jailers strap her to a slant board and then drop her head into a trough of water in ever-increasing duration, all but drowning their victim each time. Other times a carefully placed needle did the trick. “Bring me a chair,” he said, as a chair materialized beneath him.

  “Ready to cooperate, madam?” He said conversationally.

  “My husband and I are school teachers, we know nothing,” her exhausted voice heavy with submission. She was almost ready, Von Schmelling thought as he observed her like a laboratory specimen.

  “No, you are terrorists plotting against your benevolent occupiers, but, more importantly, against your countrymen.”

  “We are not,” she wailed, a breath away from complete psychological breakdown.

  Two guards brought in a young man and threw him onto the floor. He had already been beaten severely. He smelled of burnt flesh. The burns were in areas that were covered by the rags of clothing left on his body. Electrodes had been affixed to his testicles. It was one of Von Schmelling’s favorite pastimes. It made him violently aroused. Following those sessions he had a female prisoner brought to his study above for some personal attention. They were so much more fun than the Teutonic bitch his parents had arranged for him to marry. Wealth and privilege had its burdens and rewards, he thought. Well, she’s home in Dresden torturing the domestic staff in her own way. God, I hope the war lasts, or that I can get a permanent foreign posting, he mused.

  The unfortunate man on the ground moaned and the woman crawled over to him. One of the guards was about to beat her back, but Von Schmelling waved him off. He wanted her to get a good look at her husband.

  Finally he said, “Enough. Stand Mr. Marcher up and tie his hands to the ceiling bolt.” Involuntarily the woman’s eyes looked up to see an iron ring attached to the ceiling. Marcher’s shackles were hooked to the ring and he hung there with just the tips of his feet touching the floor.

  “So, madam, your bath didn’t loosen your tongue, perhaps this will.” He motioned to the brutish sergeant who smiled and slammed a ham-sized fist into Marcher’s kidneys. Despite his almost unconscious state, the hanging man screamed under the massive blow.

  “No, Major!” Mademoiselle Marcher screamed.

  “A few to the ribs I think, Joseph. Now, his terrorist balls.” Soon Marcher began to cough blood.

  “I will do anything, sign anything, just stop,” the woman was past hysterical.

  “I know you will, mademoiselle,” Von Schmelling said, clearly communicating his sadistic intent. Von Schmelling waived a scented handkerchief gesturing to have the victim taken down. Marcher poured down to the floor, lacking any control over his body.

  “Take him out,” Von Schmelling sighed. Two guards roughly grabbed Marcher and dragged him from the room. “Clean her up and bring her to my study. Find her some decent clothing. Till we meet again, Fraulein.” Von Schmelling smiled and strode from the room, a spring in his step. Even the toughest couldn’t stand seeing their loved ones tortured, he thought. He always saved that for last. He didn’t like them talking too soon.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The sky roared by the window just a few feet in front of a group of paratroopers flying over the English countryside. John Trunce stood in the middle of the row of men preparing to jump. The man behind him checked his gear as he checked the man in front of him. It was another training exercise. He was getting tired of them. He was one of the 82nd Airborne currently stationed in England. He and his friends had seen action in Italy, and while their constant training kept them on their toes, it did nothing to quell their urgency to get back at it and bring the war to a conclusion.

  It had been many months since John left home. Everyone knew the invasion was coming. Command was waiting for the optimum conditions to assault “Fortress Europe.” While he was apprehensive about the unknown, he had the impatience and sense of indestructibility that came with his young age. At nineteen he felt like a caged animal, in too big a hurry to get back into combat. This time they would be facing Germany’s best general, Erwin Rommel, a man widely respected on both sides of the channel. Rommel believed in armor and he led from the front. He’d be there to meet the invasion head on.

  John focused on his strong sense of duty and defense of his country. Pearl Harbor had shown everyone that America wasn’t isolated. Just like most of his friends, he joined up and chose the paratroopers because they were the best. He thought fighting with the best might improve his chances of survival. It made practical sense to him, but he knew nobody would really know until they were in combat. He’d been with his buddies in combat and there wasn’t a coward among them. Like them, his biggest fear was letting anyone down. So he listened to orders and focused. He instinctively knew that this was probably going to be the most important thing he did in his life. This was not the time or the place to screw up.

  John’s thoughts were interrupted by the flashing green light and the jumpmaster’s signal to move. As the stick moved forward, John shuffled towards the door, jumped out, and was caught in the prop blast and pulled out into the heavens. He loved it. He felt like he was flying. If he survived the war he was going to learn to fly. He just knew he’d never be able to give it up completely.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Stenger sat back at a wooden desk, feet up, hands behind his head, smoking and staring at the ceiling. Willi sat in a chair on the other side of the desk and rested his ankles on the corner nearest him. Stenger smiled and thought, these Aryans think they look German? Hah! Willi looked German. Strong features, dark hair and a rugged build. He always looked relaxed. People were often mistaken about Willi until they saw him in acti
on. Then, they were wary of him, and rightfully so. His was a tough old farm family that was passionate about boxing. Willi grew up sparring with his older, bigger brothers. They had shown him no mercy. So he improved his own skills until he could turn the tables on them, which he reportedly did with great relish. His skills were a source of pride to his father, who characteristically showed little emotion towards his children, but who loved the fight in Willi and told him so.

  Stenger looked around the orderly little room. Once they removed the dead Gestapo agents he moved right in. Most of the blood had been cleaned up, but it didn’t matter to Stenger and Willi. They were well past that. Yes, he liked this police station; not too much clutter and only one phone which to his great joy rarely worked. He preferred to work alone with Willi. Their minds worked differently but when necessary they could anticipate one another’s thoughts.

  “Well Horsty, how are you going to catch this femme fatale?” Willi said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  “I’m not so sure I really want to, Willi, but I’d deny it.”

  “I think your secret is safe with me, Horsty. I’ve been keeping your secrets for years now.” Willi said, lighting his cigarette, a twinkle in his eye.

  “That you have, Willi. How is it possible that you and I find ourselves in another damn war?”

  “Our soaring national pride, I guess. At least this time we’re out of the trench and away from the front.”