by Mat Nastos
The gazes of every man of the Wehrmacht nearby locked on to the unusual actions of the large Nazi, worried at what was happening to him, but unsure of what it all meant. Thankfully, the men of Hagan’s battalion moved to surround him and keep him from view while he recovered. His Change had nearly set them all off; their eyes were already streaked with the black and gold of his own. Hagan knew he’d have to take the men out for a hunt once the Reichsprotektor had recovered.
Skin returning to normal, breathing steadied, Hagan sighed as the beast within was tamed. It was becoming easier. Both the Change and his return. Soon, he’d be able to entice it at will and he’d finally be what Himmler had promised a year ago when he’d been taken in to the forests of Germany and offered power from beyond the rim of the world. It pleased the soldier to no end.
Hagan’s brief moment of satisfaction was interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared nearby, startling him more than it should have.
“Ahem,” came the voice again, causing Hagan to turn toward it and find a twenty-something corporal of the Panzer Corps trying to get his attention. “Pardon me, Herr Hauptstürmfurher, but I have something important to show you.”
Smiling as warmly as he knew how – somewhere slightly below the freezing point of water – Hagan gestured the man forward. Something or someone trailed just to his rear and out of Hagan’s sight. Something that smelled strongly of old cheese and cured beef.
“What is that behind your back, Corporal? You are supposed to get rid of the trash, not drag it back to me,” laughed Hagan mirthlessly.
An elderly couple who looked far closer to siblings than husband and wife were pushed forward. Hagan looked them over quickly, with the eye of someone being shown something distasteful. The old man was hunched over to the point that he’d lost at least six-inches of his height, had stringy white hair brushed over to hide a liver-spot-encrusted bald patch on the crown of his head, and was missing most of his front teeth. The woman, whom Hagan assumed had to be the only living thing in the world even homelier and more disgusting than the man, was only an inch or two above being considered a dwarf, with large pendulous breasts that hung down to the top of her belt, and slightly less hair than her husband. A massive birthmark the color of chardonnay covered the majority of her wrinkled face.
Poor breeding was all Hagan could think as he waited for the soldier ‒ Lehmann his patch said ‒ to explain why he brought two such devastatingly painful examples of Bohemia in front of him at a time like this.
“Well, Corporal?”
“This is Herr Kovar Prochazka, the grocer whose shop the Obergruppenführer vehicle crashed into, and his wife, Frau Maruska. They are witnesses to the incident and have volunteered to help identify the murderous traitors who have acted against the will of the Fatherland,” said the young corporal who was obviously uncomfortable dealing with a man of Hagan’s reputation.
Halting the man’s tale with a jerk of his fist, Hagan locked eyes onto the old Czech man and fine example of an ancient troll. “Let Herr Prochazka recount the story in his own words.”
A look of worry crossed Lehmann’s face, along with a tiny frown. “I’m not sure that is the best idea, Herr Hauptsturmführer. You see,” started the corporal before Hagan cut him off again, this time with an inhuman growl that started deep within his throat before finally breaking free, silencing everyone within twenty feet with its intensity.
“I will be the judge of that, Corporal!”
“Y-yes… but of c-course, Hauptsturmführer Hagan!” replied the man before turning to Prochazka and whispering a few words Hagan failed to catch. Whatever was said, the elderly man nodded at Lehmann and stepped cautiously forward to stand in front of the Nazi soldier.
The malformed old man began speaking excitedly in Czech. His speech was accentuated by the flamboyant, far-sweeping gestures Hagan more often associated with the Italians, as if the man were saying as much with his extremities as his mouth. Whatever was being said, however, was beyond Hagan’s means of understanding. Although he had been stationed in Prague since it had been annexed back into Germany, he had never deigned to learn the language of its people. He had never needed the ability to communicate with them beyond what could be said with the butt of a gun or threat of a bullet. They were, after all, a simple folk and easily cowed.
“Translate for me, Corporal Lehmann. I do not speak the low tongue.”
Lehmann nodded. “Of course, Hauptsturmführer. Herr Prochazka tells of a white giant with a sword, joined by a band of men with guns, attacking Obergruppenführer. They killed his men and fled to the east, but that is all he saw. All he remembers.”
The second smile Hagan attempted failed so miserably that it caused Lehmann to retreat a few steps and stumble over the waiting, equally terrified, elderly couple.
“Thank Herr Prochazka for his assistance,” grinned Hagan behind slightly elongated canines. “Please escort him and his… lovely wife back to Hradcany Castle and see if the inquisitors can help them to remember more.”
A wave of Hagan’s hand called over a trio of Waffen-SS troops who had been securing the area. The black uniformed soldiers took the pair of old Czechs into custody and escorted them quickly into a waiting vehicle. In a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, the vehicle rumbled away and the neighbors of Liben knew the Prochazkas would never again be seen by them. Such was the fate of any who angered their Nazi overseers.
A true smile – an evil smile – finally broke free across Hagan’s grim features. He swore he would kill every man, woman, and child in all of Bohemia and Moravia if that’s what it took. The idea that any would raise their hand against the Fatherland or against a member of the Edda Society infuriated him. Were they not the masters of the master race? How could any dare to defy them?
Hagan would find the men responsible for the massacre and make them pay for every drop of Aryan blood spilled on the dirty Bohemian ground. Before they died, he’d make the rebels watch as he devoured their still-beating hearts and gave their souls up to the Jotnar.
* * *
MacAndrew and his unusual new ‘friend’ seemed to be harried with each step they took toward the safe-house. The Nazis had increased their patrols and the pair ran into soldiers on every street corner. Even worse for the would-be liberator from Glasgow, the eyes of the Czech people themselves – the people he was risking life and limb to help – seemed to have hidden agendas. With the attack on the Butcher having stirred up every Waffen-SS unit in fifty miles, promises of rewards and veiled threats would have turned the ears of many of the locals against the rebels and their cause. The promise of future freedom was great, but for many the promises of immediate pain were far more influential.
And the Nazis knew a great deal about pain. They knew more than he had dreamed possible. They had to be stopped, and getting rid of the Butcher of Prague had been the first step of many the Allies would need to take to put an end to their tyranny.
Of course, before that, MacAndrew and the pale giant at his side would have to stay out of the hands of their hunters. Attacking a member of the Nazi party was a death sentence, and killing someone as high on the totem pole as Reinhard Heydrich would be even worse. The thought caused the Scotsman to chuckle absentmindedly.
“What could be worse than a death sentence,” he wondered aloud, forgetting he was no longer alone.
“There are many things to fear beyond death, little Celt. Pray you do not discover them,” responded the warrior, snapping MacAndrew back to reality.
The strange words, spoken with such matter-of-factness by the unusual stranger, sat in a most troublesome fashion with MacAndrew as the duo skirted the city, dodging armed SS patrols before reaching their destination on Liben’s border with Prague proper. Resting in the rundown alley behind a tavern with an illicit reputation was the rebels’ fall-back meeting space – a tiny, rundown shanty house once used by the property’s owners as a storage she
d for farm equipment. Now in disrepair, its peaked roof poked out of the tall, dry grass of the disused quarter-acre of land behind the pub.
It was a building uncared for and unnoticed by the town’s population, and perfect for the clandestine needs of their group. After a look around the area to make sure they hadn’t been followed to the hideout, and a quick leap over the short, broken-down fence lining the rear of the location, MacAndrew rushed to the front of the shack. He found the door locked and barred from the inside, but a series of knocks in a predetermined pattern gave an ‘all-clear’ signal to the men waiting inside. The door creaked open on rusted hinges to allow access.
“It’s the captain,” came the recognizable voice of Opalka as the Scotsman and giant crossed the shed’s threshold, closing the door behind them.
“I’m glad you boys made it back in once piece,” said MacAndrew, allowing his gaze to roam from one man to the next.
Wounds now patched, Opalka was seated on the rickety old table the men had used to plan their attack on Heydrich’s convoy late the night before, threatening to send it crashing to the floor with his weight. Kubis and Gabcik stood near the door, the black barrels of their Sten guns held at the ready. Neither men were entirely at ease with the pale newcomer, and their Scottish leader couldn’t fault them their caution. What did any of them really know about the man… outside of his skill for slaughtering men.
Wait. Someone was missing. “Where is Curda,” asked MacAndrew.
“I’m not sure,” answered Opalka. “We were separated during the initial attack and I lost the little man in the confusion. He could show up here anytime.”
“Bah,” scoffed Kubis. “He was killed. I am sure of it. The sewer rat had no stomach for combat. If he is not dead, he’s fled into the country for sure. We’ll not see him again.”
“What about… him?” Gabcik jerked a thumb towards the ivory-skinned giant cleaning the gunshot wound just above his abdomen.
The four conspirators pivoted their heads in unison to watch the man remove his vest to reveal a seemingly endless array of muscle rippling across every inch of his body – the sort of muscle and definition that came from decades of hardship and work rather than intensive training. The man wiped the dark crimson stain from his hard white flesh, never once grimacing at what should have been a near-crippling wound.
In awe of the man’s stamina and willpower, MacAndrew asked, “Are you all right there, lad? It looked like you took a pretty nasty hit back on the road. I’m surprised you made it this far.”
Sapphire eyes streaked with lightning snapped up at the sound of the Scot’s voice, showing anger and focus but no pain. The big man shook his head. “It is nothing to concern yourself with. I have endured far worse in my time.”
A closer glimpse at the giant’s bare skin revealed a network of scars covering his torso from top to bottom. Burns, cuts, tears and even bites marred the pallid tapestry of flesh. In the spider-web of cracks in the marble skin MacAndrew could read a lot of pain, including signs of more recent trauma that would have incapacitated a normal man for months or years.
Imagining what he must have gone through, the torture to which he had been subjected, brought a quote MacAndrew had heard his grandma say from time to time: ‘That man has seen some shite.’
Grandma MacAndrew was always quite the wordsmith.
Paranoia flaring, Gabcik asked his captain in a false whisper fully intended to be heard by all present. “How do we know we can trust him? He is Německé… he is German.” The rail-thin Czech soldier all but spit the word out in disgust. There was no love lost for the Germans in the room.
Gabcik’s open hostility and agitation spread quickly to his countrymen, who began to crowd around the man, fingering their weapons.
“Gabcik is right,” added the normally cool and collected Opalka. The day’s activities had run hairline fractures throughout the man’s usual resolve and it was starting to show. “We know nothing about him. For all we know the man could be a Nazi agent, Captain MacAndrew.”
“Having him here endangers the entire movement,” chirped Kubis from off to the side, bowing to the will of the alpha dogs in their group. Gabcik’s best friend was a good soldier, but had always been easier to set off than a stick of dynamite.
“Don’t be daft,” barked MacAndrew, placing his own impressive girth between the suspicious men and the stranger who saved their lives. “You saw him in action with your own eyes. He killed more of Hitler’s boys in thirty seconds than any of us have in a year. What he did out there saved us all from being captured… from being tortured and killed. And he killed the Butcher.”
“What?!” The three men were surprised by the revelation.
“It’s true. Ran the bastard through with the sword there on his belt after killing his bodyguards,” said MacAndrew with more than a trace of smugness. Whoever the big man was, he could be a valuable asset to their cause. If the Scot had a few more men like this one he could almost convince himself the war would be over in a matter of months.
“You are wrong,” snarled the giant, pushing his way past MacAndrew and staring down the men who were on the verge of turning on him, injured though they were. “Heydrich lives. I can feel it. If he lives, all will be lost.”
MacAndrew’s jaw dropped; he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d seen what the white monster had done to the Nazi. Heydrich had been carved in two and the man was left flopping on the ground like a dying fish, clutching his belly while he tried to keep his entrails from spilling about. No one, not even a man with the Butcher’s legendary luck could survive being run through like that, and MacAndrew told the big man so.
The giant ignored MacAndrew’s argument completely.
“Where will the Nazis take their leader to be healed?” he asked the dumbfounded Scotsman.
Exchanging worried glances between themselves, the rebels debated silently before Opalka finally answered. “Bulovka Hospital is nearby. Most likely the Butcher is there.”
“If he is not dead already,” chimed Gabcik, growing increasingly impatient with the stranger. “For all we know, our mission was successful and the Butcher dines in Hell tonight.”
Gesturing for MacAndrew to return his gun, the pale warrior began preparing himself to leave the tiny house the men had taken refuge in. Sliding the Mauser back into its holster on his massive belt and securing it, he turned his back to the men and started for the door.
“Then I must go to Bulovka and finish my work. Heydrich’s head will be mine before the day is over.”
“Are you mad?!” Gabcik nearly spat, wincing and placing a hand to his bandaged shoulder. The others quickly agreed. “A trek to the Nazi-run medical facility means nothing but death. To even consider such a thing is insanity!”
The more level-headed Kubis stepped in and said, “There will be a house-to-house search by the Butcher’s men. Our only chance is to get out of Liben and into Prague before they can find us.”
A hiss from the pale figure pacing the claustrophobic shack like a caged lion silenced them all. It was clear the man was disgusted with the cowardice he perceived in the insurgents.
“You children may run off and hide now,” responded the giant, meeting the glares of MacAndrew’s men one by one without flinching. His confidence in himself and his mission was unyielding even in the face of unbeatable odds. “Mine is the work of men.”
Opalka’s face went red in anger and Gabcik chambered a round into his Sten gun, blood now staining his bandage. Both men looked to MacAndrew for support; there was no way they were going to be insulted by a German in their homeland. The Huns had done enough to them already and their patience had frayed well beyond the breaking point. A silent shake of the captain’s head was all that stopped the imminent outbreak of violence between the new allies. MacAndrew marched up to the giant and poked him in his chest, a look of shock crossing the warrior’s face
with the brashness of the move.
“I’ll help you, lad,” huffed MacAndrew, displaying the exception he took at the remarks regarding their manhood. “I didn’t come all the way from Glasgow to leave a job half done… but I’ll not be having you mock my men.”
A wave of the Scotsman’s calloused hand cut off the protests from his soldiers. He knew they were all incredibly loyal to him, that none liked the idea of leaving their mentor – their commander – behind with a German whose mental stability was in question. MacAndrew refused to listen to their clamor and assured them he’d be fine. If the giant had wanted to do them harm, he could have killed them or left them to die at the hands of the Wehrmacht any number of times.
Slowly, one by one, the men agreed to MacAndrew’s words, even if they didn’t like them.
“Opalka, take Kubis and Gabcik and head to the church, I’ll meet up with you as soon as I can,” said MacAndrew, sending his men off to their hidden base of operations within Prague itself. Once they had disappeared into the blisteringly-hot morning, the Scotsman turned to his new comrade, “We’d best wait for sundown, lad. The Krauts are out in full force looking for us now and we wouldn’t get within a mile of the hospital before they took us down.”
The giant grunted at the Scot’s statement.
Ignoring the interruption and cutting off any chance of a rebuttal from the foul-tempered stranger, MacAndrew added, “Alive or dead, after what you did to him, the Butcher isn’t going anywhere before nightfall.”
CHAPTER 4
AT DEATH’S DOOR
The Bulovka Hospital, located in the heart of the Liben district on the outskirts of Prague, had been left to its own management for most of the German occupation of Czechoslovakia. Its reputation of medical excellence and as a teaching hospital had allowed it to be spared from Nazi involvement. The general thinking by the German high command had been to focus their efforts on the larger medical facilities in the Bohemian capitol and thus, Bulovka and its doctors had been allowed autonomy within the increasingly fascist state.
