MATT HELM: The War Years

by Keith Wease

  Daryl and I slowly crawled forward, keeping behind the trees, until we were less than fifty feet from the house, right at the tree line. We aimed our pistols at the guards, me taking the one on the left - my left, not theirs - since I was to the left of Daryl, and waited until Rasmussen and Fedder had circled around to the side of the building closest to the car. One of them waved in the light spilling out of the window and Daryl and I shot the guards several times each. I doubt if even the guards could have heard the faint puffs from the silenced pistols. For a moment I wondered what had gone wrong as they just sat there; then, as in slow motion, one toppled forward onto the lawn while the other just kind of slumped over against the handrail.

  We watched Fedder and Rasmussen come around the corner, each taking one side of the car. Both doors opened simultaneously and I saw the flash of a knife. The guard had been lying with his feet toward the door on our side and we could see his legs do a little jig for a second or two and then he was still.

  Up to that point, it had been a perfect operation. The next step had depended upon whether or not there was a warning from outside. Since there hadn't been, the plan called for Daryl and I, who were the closest in size to the guards - they were a Mutt and Jeff team like us - to go in the front door, dressed in their clothes, and Rasmussen to go in the back, while Fedder stood guard until when we came out, or went in after us if we didn't.

  While we dragged the guards away from the house and put on their clothes and helmets, disregarding the little bit of blood on them, Rasmussen kept guard. Once we were ready, he whispered, "Count to twenty and then go in," and headed for the back of the house. We walked to the front door, counting, and on twenty, opened the door and walked in.

  The idea was, of course, to make them hesitate when they first saw us, giving us time to take care of the two lieutenants while Rasmussen subdued the General. It should have worked, and might have, if anybody had been in the room. The music was still playing and there were wine glasses on the coffee table, but the room was empty. We looked around quickly. The kitchen was in the back, which was where Rasmussen had come in and it was empty as well. That only left the two bedrooms, one on each side of the living room, both with the doors closed. Rasmussen nodded us toward the one on the right and he headed for the other one.

  They were in the one he'd assigned to us. Daryl went in first, being the shorter, so I could shoot over him if necessary. I slammed the door open while he dove inside, rolling quickly to his feet and turning the wrong way. I came in standing - their attention should have been on him, according to our training - and looked the right way. I had the pistol pointed in front of me and turned my head quickly to the right when I found nothing in that direction. The bed was on that side of the room and was occupied…

  I might have used the excuse that I was young and naive. Maybe so, but I hope I never get that old and jaded. It shocked me, which is no excuse - after all I had a job to do and had been trained to do that job. Both men were naked, one lying on his stomach, while the other crouched over his legs, doing something obscene with a pistol.

  The one with the pistol saw me at the same time I saw him and swung it toward me while I stood there frozen like a gaping idiot, with my own pistol out of position. By the time I could move it was too late. I was dead. I could see his finger tightening on the trigger just as someone yelled my name and something hit me in the side, knocking me out of the way. I heard two shots, so close together they almost sounded as one, and I saw a small hole appear in the forehead of the man with the gun. By now I was fully awake and dove toward the other one. We had been told to leave as few bullet holes as possible on the inside - the outside didn't matter - and I was finally following orders.

  I hit him and broke his neck. I'll have to admit that it surprised me almost as much as it did him. I'd known from training that it could be done that way, but I hadn't had any really good reason to think I could do it. I'd been ready to throw myself on top of him and pin him down and finish him off, one way or another, before he could recover from the first blow. It wasn't necessary. There were some ugly, convulsive jerks and twitches as the final, fading signals filtered through the damaged circuits; then he lay limp and still.

  By then Rasmussen had come in and we both headed toward the bathroom. The General was no problem. He was crouched in the shower, crying in terror, as naked as his two friends. I went back to see about Daryl, who we'd left standing in the room. He was sitting on the bottom of the bed, holding his left shoulder. With a little grunting, we managed to get the German's jacket off him, baring his shoulder. He had a deep furrow in the fleshy part of his upper arm, just below the shoulder blade. While Rasmussen went to get Fedder and a first aid kit, I took Daryl into the bathroom and cleaned the wound out, holding a towel on it until Fedder came in and bandaged it.

  I looked at Daryl and held out my hand. "Thanks, amigo," I said.

  He took it, smiled and replied, "Nada."

  Chapter 11

  Fedder blew the house on schedule and we got away clean. Jacques and his friends got us all to the coast without incident and the Navy got us back to England, where the General was turned over to British Intelligence. I didn't think they would have any trouble getting him to talk, not after seeing him in the bathroom. I carefully suppressed the thought that the perverted bastard deserved it.

  For the most part, we were ignored by the M-5 or M-6 guys - whatever the hell they called themselves - and were happy to see Abraham waiting to pick us up, not that I was looking forward to reporting to Mac for debriefing. It had been an amateur performance on my part, even though the others told me to forget it.

  Mac surprised me. After listening to Rasmussen's report - which included my momentary lapse - he turned to me in front of the others and said, "The job got done, and very well, Eric. No one expects you to be a machine. You've learned a very valuable lesson and, under the circumstances, a relatively cheap one. It seems you recovered nicely and completed the job just the way you should have."

  That made me feel a lot better until he turned to Daryl. "Daryl, on the other hand, seems to be suffering from tender, brotherly feelings for his fellow man. From what I understand, you had a nice clear shot at your target and, instead of taking that shot, decided to push Eric out of the way so you could then shoot while moving, getting shot yourself in the process. If you'd taken that first shot, possibly neither of you would have been shot. On the other hand, it was quite possible that you might have missed when you finally did shoot, and both you and Eric could have been killed. Do you need a refresher course in Rule One, Daryl?"

  He had discipline. He flushed slightly, but managed to say, "No, sir," with a steady voice.

  "Very well. Perhaps more than one lesson was learned this time. Daryl, report to the infirmary to have that wound looked at by a doctor. The rest of you can report back to base. Congratulations to all of you on an exceptional job." His glance obviously included Daryl and me. That's my kind of boss. Chew you out when you need it, and then forget it.

  Outside the building, I burst out laughing at the incongruity of it, joined by Rasmussen and Fedder. "What's so damned funny," Daryl demanded, still smarting.

  "I froze, forcing you to save my life, and got you shot in the process," I gasped, " and you ... you ..." I paused for a breath. "You get reamed out for it!"

  His lips twitched as he saw the funny side of it, then he was laughing as loudly as the rest of us. I imagine part of it was simply the release of tension at the end of a mission. We stopped by the infirmary and waited while Daryl's shoulder was properly sterilized and re-bandaged. Then we drove back to the camp and got drunk, along with the rest of the group. After all, Daryl was our first casualty.

  Two weeks later, Stella went out and didn't come back. Mac broke the news to us one night in the canteen. Even then, he didn't provide us with details, except for one. "I thought you'd all like to know - she did her job and made the touch. She just ran into some bad luck trying to get clear."

 
That night we all had a drink to Stella's memory. Nobody got drunk.

  During the following year, the air war intensified, and our services were requested in the rescue of important prisoners - important in the sense of the information in their heads - as well as the capture of Germans with important information in their heads. After the success of the mission in which Daryl got injured, British Intelligence considered us their own private little information-retrieval service for a while, until Mac disabused them of the idea. There weren't many instances when someone was a sitting duck as our General had been, and Mac refused to accept suicide missions that had no chance of success. He didn't have so many agents that he was willing to expend one fruitlessly, and apparently his authority came from high enough up that he could make it stick - which didn't make us any more popular with the intelligence outfits.

  After all, he explained to us on more than one occasion, we were trained for a specific purpose. We weren't the search and rescue boys, a commando outfit or an intelligence agency. Our unit was created to do the jobs that nobody else wanted - to get our hands dirty face-to-face with a specified enemy. Finding those kinds of people wasn't easy. If you look, there's evidence that, in most modern wars, the average soldier simply shot his gun in the general direction of the enemy and when given a clear shot at an individual, couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. Most casualties of war came from the long-range weapons, when you couldn't see the face of your opponent. There were always exceptions, of course; otherwise Mac wouldn't have found enough recruits to form his unit.

  Actually, I think he accepted some of the early missions - like my first one, where we actually went in and did the whole job - just to give us some on-the-job-training. He didn't trust an outsider to protect his new people until they graduated, so to speak. Regardless of all the training, no one was really considered a graduate until they actually pulled the trigger, figuratively speaking of course - it could be a knife or garrote or your hands.

  We lost one of our group that way. His name was Mark and he was a pain in the ass all through training. He was the gung-ho type, with the movie soldier syndrome. You know what I mean. He considered everyone with perfectly legitimate fears, if not a coward, then certainly lacking in the manly attitude. I'll admit I was prejudiced - he was one of the ones who laughed at my reaction to parachute training. He was the first to belittle someone for a bad score and the first to brag on his own good scores - and they were very good. He was a natural at any weapon and hell on wheels at hand-to-hand. There was more than a touch of bully in him and we were all just as happy when he was sent out on his own and not paired with one of us. Vance went along to chaperone and told us about it later.

  It wasn't a high-risk operation, as the French underground did all the work. All Mark had to do was lie down on the ground about three hundred yards back and pull a trigger. It was broad daylight and the target was just standing there. Vance was lying beside him, ready to make sure if Mark missed. The first time you have a real person in your sights instead of a paper target, its easy to get a little excited and rush the shot or shake just enough to pull the bullet off course, which is why we always had company on our first missions. Anyway, Vance waited almost too long, giving Mark the benefit of the doubt. Then, he heard a choking sound and saw the barrel of Mark's rifle tilt down. Looking over at him, Vance saw that Mark was crying. He simply couldn't pull the trigger. He wasn't a coward - he was later awarded a Silver Star for bravery under fire, once he was reassigned to a combat unit where his talents were more appreciated - he just couldn't kill someone in cold blood, something no tests, interviews or training can determine.

  Mark, of course, never came back to our base. His things were collected and forwarded to the appropriate unit. Most of us, including Vance, didn't fault him, and those who hadn't yet had the chance to prove themselves were very quiet for a few days. It happens. Fortunately, Vance was able to make the touch and nobody died because of a failed mission.

  Ironically, a lot of our missions were like Mark's, especially while we mostly operated in France. Mac was willing to lend a hand when a back-up man who was handy with weapons was needed, so long as the primary risk was taken by others. I spent a lot of time totally removed from the action, waiting for my target to appear, pulling a trigger, and quietly disappearing while all hell broke loose below me. Most of the time I had no idea why I was pulling the trigger or even whom I was shooting. We weren't exactly inundated with information, if you know what I mean.

  Chapter 12

  Our little group would expand and contract as the war went on, new recruits added and experienced agents dying or being captured - a grim reminder that even a safety zone of three or four hundred yards often wasn't enough. And then there were the times when the long rifles wouldn't get the job done and we had to go in and get them up close.

  It was on one of those missions that I got shot the first time. The nice open targets were getting scarce. You can always overdo a thing and it doesn't take large numbers to make an impact. If a doctor discovers five patients in one town who die of arsenic poisoning, it's a pretty good bet that a source of contamination exists. If the same type of engine falls off the same type aircraft three times in 200 sorties, you ground the planes until the manufacturing defect is fixed. Likewise, if a few high-ranking officers in critical positions inexplicably fall down dead just at the wrong - or right, depending on your viewpoint - moment, you start issuing orders to stay out of well-lit windows and don't take walks in the open.

  I don't really think the Germans suspected the existence of a group like ours that early on - it was probably put down to the copycat theory. A good idea is a good idea, no matter who originated it. Actually, as Mac observed when he told us of the orders, it probably hindered the German efforts in France as much, or more, than the actions which necessitated the orders. As he put it, a little paranoia was good for their nerves - good for our side, of course.

  It did make our job more difficult, so our tactics changed to fit the new circumstances. Ironically, it was another partnership mission with Daryl, another General who was the target, and another blunder on my part, which got me shot. Well, bad luck had a lot to do with it. And good luck allowed me to survive it, so it evens out.

  We had infiltrated a small town just outside Paris, a favorite place for German Generals to spend a few days on vacation. We were hidden for two days in a small French café that served bad enough food that the Germans avoided it - letting the Resistance use it for a meeting place. When we got word that our target had arrived and which chalet he had selected for his stay, we moved in.

  The plan was to hide in his chalet - the Germans had almost no security at that time, being arrogantly sure that they were safe that close to Paris - and take him as he came in, drunk and with a female companion in tow. A pretty young French girl - so we were informed - with Resistance sympathies had been selected for the purpose. She was to flirt with him, get him drunk and get herself invited to his chalet.

  I don't know what went wrong - maybe the girl wasn't pretty enough, or maybe he just ran into some old friends and put friendship above sex for that night. In any case, the door opened and he came in and saw me standing there with a gun, which was part of the plan. I was the distraction. He was supposed to see me and, while his attention was diverted, Daryl would step out from behind the door and slit his throat. That's often why partnerships are used, that and the fact that the partner creating the diversion is available for backup, if needed. The plan worked perfectly up to that point and Daryl performed on schedule. However, as the General fell, his two friends, who had also seen me, burst through the doorway, struggling to get their pistols up to fire - at me, of course. Daryl was hidden from their view by the door and all they saw was the General being jerked backwards. I was the one with the gun, the natural target. They were fairly slow getting their pistols into play - it's not easy getting a gun out of those leather holsters they wear - and I already had mine pointed at them, but I hesitate
d just long enough for one of them to get off a shot before I killed him. I felt a hammer blow in my chest, but the other one was bringing his pistol up, so I shot him in the head. Then I looked down and saw the round hole in my shirt, with a little blood around it…

  Okay, so it was stupid, but if you're a man with a gun who's had any training at all, you don't take any hasty shots toward your partner's position. You get the permissible sectors of fire clearly set in your mind first thing; you remind yourself firmly that shooting in that direction is simply not allowed. Just as the AA guns on a warship are blocked so that the ones aft can't blow the heads off the guys serving the ones forward if somebody gets excited, so each member of a good hunting partnership, whatever the quarry, establishes certain limits for himself beyond which he must not fire, at least not without thinking it over and being very, very careful. The problem is that when you really need to fire in that direction, the warning signals scream in your brain - danger bearing, danger bearing - like klaxons going off in there and red lights flashing, make you take a moment to think it over and wait for a safer shot - which may be too late. That's one of the reasons I prefer a lone-wolf operation - I may not have someone watching my back, but at least I don't have to worry about whom I shoot.