MATT HELM: The War Years

by Keith Wease

  I felt a little blood running from my nose; I made no effort to sniff it back. They love the sight of blood - other folks' blood - and the human body holds several quarts. I could spare a few drops for public relations. He stepped forward and kicked me in the side as I crouched there in abject terror for a minute or so. Then I sat up defiantly and made the appropriate responses, commenting on his parentage. You can cut any similar dialogue from a movie and fit it in here - they expect it. It all sounds pretty corny to me, but he found it convincing enough to give me a backhand crack to the side of the face. One of his rings nicked me above the right eyebrow and produced a little more blood for his pleasure.

  I was concerned with the timing: Could I yield convincingly now or should I wait until I had a few more cuts and bruises and he brought out the knife he was bound to produce. I mean, I'd been here before. The moves are predictable. Reluctantly deciding that I couldn’t give in too easily, I kept my mouth shut and waited for his next move.

  Price walked to the door and told Josef to bring some more rope. When Josef came in carrying a coil of rope, Price asked him for my knife – surprise! - and told him to keep me covered. He walked over to the small stove just inside the kitchen, making sure I could see what he was doing, and turned on one of the two gas burners. He opened the knife and set it beside the burner with the blade over the flame. Reaching behind him, he grabbed a kitchen chair and set it in the middle of the living room next to me.

  “Sit in the chair, Eric,” he ordered. I hesitated and, as he drew back his foot for another kick, slowly got up off the floor and sat in the chair. Being careful not to get in Josef’s way, he untied my hands and retied them behind the back of the chair, securing them to the chair. He then tied my legs to the front legs of the chair and motioned Josef back outside.

  Reaching toward me with both hands, he slowly unbuttoned my shirt, smiling at me. He then walked over and took his gloves out of his coat pocket and put on the right-hand glove. He went to the kitchen and retrieved my knife, grabbing the handle in his gloved right hand….

  It was like a lot of physical tortures - it's rough, but pain is pain. I mean, it's worse than hitting your thumb with a heavy hammer or dropping a brick on your toe because it didn't stop. It's about like having a clumsy, persistent dentist working on you without Novocain. People have stood that and I stood this, but I don't pretend I was heroic about it. I grunted and sweated as it went on; I even considered screaming occasionally but decided against it. Things were tough enough without adding a gag to my discomforts. Hate and thoughts of revenge are usually the way to get through it. You concentrate on the torturer as someone you are going to kill very slowly, very deliberately, very painfully when your time comes. The ingenious torments you devise for him - or her - keep you going during the times when the disinterested-spectator technique doesn't quite work any more.

  You don't have to bluster about it, but you can think about it: you concentrate on visualizing the scene when it is your turn. First you work it out with a gun: smash the knee and elbow joints, shoot the fingers off one by one, blast the eardrums with the muzzle held close, and blow away the testicles. One thing you don't want to do is blind the bastard. You want him to be able to watch you enjoying yourself. You want him to see and appreciate what's happening to him. You want him to know he played his tic-tac-toe on the wrong guy's chest and got himself totally ruined; and then maybe you can afford to be nice and put one between the eyes to end it. Or maybe not. Okay. So what about a knife, let's figure it with a knife. A knife is always good, and you can perform more delicately painful operations with a blade that you can with a bullet.… Oh, Jesus, how long is the sonofabitch going to keep this up, anyway?

  He aimed the knife at my left eye. “You can stop it anytime, Eric,” he taunted. I hesitated, a man struggling toward a reluctant decision. I shook my head and said, "Okay! Enough, dammit!"

  He looked at me for a moment and then nodded. He walked into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water. Holding it to my lips, he let me drain most of it.

  “Okay, Eric, for whom do you work?”

  “… There’s a man called Mac. I report to him. We really don’t have an official name, although we refer to ourselves as the M-Group….”

  This went on for a while, me spinning the half-truths, real truths and complete fiction Mac and I had concocted, and Price interrupting with questions and occasional threats with the knife. I gave him enough information for him to convince himself he had the real goods and enough evasion and “I don’t knows” that he was sure I knew more than I was willing to tell him.

  I knew I had him hooked when he said, “We’re going to take a little trip, Eric. There is someone who will really want to meet you.”

  He went into the kitchen and came back with a first-aid kit. Taking off the glove, he rummaged in the kit and came up with a small tube of some kind of ointment. “This may help a little,” he said, as he smeared the gunk over the cuts and burns on my chest.

  A half-hour later, with my bladder emptied, my shirt buttoned up and my coat on, I was securely tied hand-and-foot, placed in the front seat of the car, and tied to the seat support so I couldn’t reach Price or open the door and throw myself out. This was encouraging, as it indicated that we were going to lose Hans and Josef somewhere along the way. I hoped my back-up team was doing their job….

  Chapter 28

  About an hour later, we entered a medium-sized town, turned off the main road and, a few blocks down, parked in front of a small brick house. Price went into the house, along with Hans and Josef, and came back out alone, carrying two opened bottles of beer. He opened the passenger door and held one bottle to my lips, letting me take a long swallow. “Enjoy it, Eric,” he said. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t untie your hands and let you hold the bottle.”

  I’ve never been a great beer fan, but this one tasted about as good as anything I’ve ever had. Thirst, stress and a physical beating will do that to you. He let me finish the bottle, threw it in the yard, closed my door and went around to the driver’s side and off we went again.

  “Let me guess,” I ventured. “We’re going somewhere Hans and Josef have no business knowing about.”

  “Correct, Eric,” Price replied. With a hint of pride in his voice, he continued, “Only four of us even know of Doktor Vogelmann’s presence here in France. He will be very interested in talking with you.”

  “Vogelmann,” I repeated, more to myself than to Price. “The name sounds familiar …” Then a name popped up from a briefing a couple of months before. “Wait a minute, wasn’t he a protégé of Otto Skorzeny?”

  Price looked over at me sharply. “What do you know of General Skorzeny, Eric?”

  I immediately regretted my outburst. Our knowledge of Skorzeny was a little bit more information than I should have given him. Covering up, I replied, “Not all that much. He was supposed to be some kind of spymaster before he got promoted. I just remembered hearing of a civilian English professor joining his staff – a Doktor Vogelmann, educated in the U.S. and later joining the faculty of Frankfurt University in the late 30s. We tend to keep track of German nationals educated in the U.S., especially when they associate with high-ranking German officials.”

  He relaxed a little. “You have a very good memory. Yes, that is the same Doktor Vogelmann. His backgound has been very valuable to General Skorzeny.”

  I let that pass and we drove in silence for the next hour or so. I must have dozed off for a while, in spite of the dull ache on my chest, because I awoke with a start as the car came to a halt. I looked up and saw a small cottage surrounded by trees, with a black Mercedes parked in front of us. Looking to the sides, I couldn’t see any neighbors, just more trees on one side and a rolling hill on the other.

  “We’re here, Eric,” Price explained. Then, with a look of admiration, he asked, “How can you sleep?”

  “I learned a long time ago not to worry too much about things I can’t control. Besides, in my busi
ness, I never know when I’ll get a chance to sleep, so I take it when I can.”

  “A good philosophy. I will have to practice that.”

  He got out and came around to my side. He untied my feet and untied me from the seat support, leaving my hands tied. “Come on, Eric, let’s go meet Doktor Vogelmann.”

  As I got out of the car, I looked back away from the house. The driveway in which we had parked intersected a road at right angles. Looking down the road in both directions, I could see turns that would hide the approach of my back-up team, assuming they were still with us.

  I sincerely hoped they were parked somewhere just out of sight and didn’t take all night, because if they didn’t show, I was going to find out once and for all what was on the other side of that fabled “bright light.” Hidden in my clothing – never mind where – was a little “kill me” pill which I could reach so long as my hands remained tied in front. All field agents carry one; when it was issued, we were told it was fairly unpleasant but quick….

  I turned toward the house and walked to the front door, Price following me. Vogelmann was obviously expecting us and opened the door while we were still halfway there. I’m not sure what I was expecting – perhaps some fictionalized evil genius with burning eyes and a sneering expression. What I got was a fiftyish, balding gray-haired professor, medium build with the standard wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He had a pleasant face, a weak chin and a charming smile … until you saw his eyes. They weren’t smiling at all.

  He stood back to let us in, staying a few feet from me once he saw my hands were tied in front. Once we were inside, he closed the door and turned to Price first. “Good work, Herr Price,” he said. Price smiled and made a slight bow.

  Turning to me, he said, “Welcome … Eric, isn’t it? My name, if Bill hasn’t already told you, is Heinrich Vogelmann.”

  I nodded my head, saying, “Happy to meet you Doktor.” I held up my hands. “You’ll forgive me for not shaking your hand, but …”

  “Ah, yes. I’m afraid I will just have to forgo the pleasure, Eric. According to Bill, here, it might not be wise to untie you.” Again, I got the charming smile. It was quite an asset for a spy.

  Vogelmann waved his hand toward an overstuffed couch. “If you and Bill will sit there …” I sat on one end and Price sat on the other, keeping his gun trained on me. He continued, “Would you care for a drink? I’ve got some beer and a fairly good chilled Riesling.”

  I opted for the Riesling while Price stuck with beer. Vogelmann came back shortly with Price’s beer in a bottle, his own wine in a crystal wine glass and my wine in a light metal cup. I just grinned at him as I took the cup in my hands. It’s nice to be respected even when tied up.

  He sat in a chair located on my side of the couch at a right angle to it, and took a sip of his wine. “Now, Mr. Helm, suppose you recap for me the story your told Herr Price.” I raised my eyebrows. Our code names were not really considered a secret, merely an identification device to keep our real names secret. “Eric” was known to quite a lot of people by now; however, my real name was known only to a select few. Hell, most of Mac’s people didn’t know it, let alone some German spymaster.

  “Surprised?” Vogelmann smiled. “We have heard several stories over the years of a tall, blond, rather lanky gentleman who has been variously described as American, German, French or Scandinavian. Regardless of the nationality, all these stories had one thing in common. Wherever this man was seen, dead bodies inevitably were left behind.

  “A few months ago, one of our agents sent back some information about a young American officer, tall, blond, very proficient with weapons and his hands, who seemed to have disappeared from an officers’ training camp and was subsequently spotted using the name ‘Eric.’ It was suspected that he was working for some kind of intelligence organization that specialized in various forms of mayhem one would not think would be countenanced by the tender American psyche. You have been quite active, Eric, and have drawn a lot of interest in some quarters.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything to say to that, so I just sat there, digesting all this.

  Before he could continue, there was the sound of a truck of some kind passing in front of the house, followed by a loud backfire a few seconds later, as the driver changed gears clumsily. Nobody paid much attention other than to look instinctively toward the general direction from which it had come. I mean, it’s only in the movies or novels that a backfire sounds much like anything else but a backfire. It especially doesn’t sound like a gunshot. I was very carefully not paying attention to it as I had been expecting it. Well, not specifically a backfire, but any one of several signals my backup team would use, depending upon the circumstances. It meant that I had about five minutes to do something, get out of the way or, as the present situation indicated, just sit still until it was time to dive for cover. My main concern was the pistol Price was holding in his hand, still in my general direction. That could create a problem.

  With only a short pause, Vogelmann continued. “The reason I am telling you this, Eric, is that when you repeat the story you told Herr Price, you might reconsider any, shall we say, flights of fancy?”

  That upset Price, who protested, “I broke him, Doktor Vogelmann. He wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t risk any more pain.”

  Vogelmann held up his hand. “Bill, I’m not doubting your expertise, but we both know people will say a lot of things they think you want to hear in order to avoid pain. I just want to separate the truth from the fiction … well, as much as we can here with my limited resources. In Germany, we can do a much better job of … debriefing.” This time his smile was not so charming.

  “Well, Eric? Or should I let Herr Price pick up where he left off?”

  It seemed like a good idea to keep them occupied concentrating on me, so I related the story again, adding in a couple of details I hadn’t told Price. Vogelmann asked a couple of questions but, for the most part, appeared content to just let me talk, nodding now and then. It didn’t take long – just long enough. I was trying to think of something else to say when we heard a back window break.

  Both of them jumped up and turned toward the bedroom, Price taking both his gun and his eyes off of me. He managed about two steps toward the bedroom before the front door smashed in and two of the most beautiful sights in my life came rushing through the opening, each carrying a machine gun. They were good. They had orders to take Vogelmann alive and Price was right in the line of fire, so they held their fire and split in opposite directions, looking for a clean shot.

  By that time I had already swung my hands over my head and down the back of my shirt and had my little throwing knife by the hilt. Price started to swing his pistol toward the one on his left, which put the back of his head toward me. Swinging both hands forward, I aimed the knife and let go in a smooth, steady motion. The little knife was beautifully balanced and made one full turn before imbedding itself in the soft spot on the back of Price’s neck, just below the skull. He continued to turn but it was just momentum at that point – he was dead on his feet. He made a little spiral and fell flat on his face.

  I looked to the side and saw one of my backup team covering Vogelmann with his gun. I didn’t recognize him, but I knew the other one. We had been on two missions together. He was still covering Price, just in case. Like I said, they were good. I got up and went over to him and held my hands out. He pulled a knife from a belt sheath with one hand and cut the rope, freeing my hands. “Thanks, Rusty,” I said. “Who’s your partner?”

  “That’s Evan. We got him a few months ago.”

  I walked over to Price and kicked him over on his back. Then I bent down and reached into his right-hand pants pocket.

  “What the hell are you doing, Eric?” That came from Evan. I pulled out my hand and showed him the Solingen knife. “The sonofabitch took my knife and I’m kind of attached to it.” He nodded as though it was perfectly natural for me to be thinking of my knife right after killing a man. Hell, it wa
s. Back at base I had my little Colt Woodsman .22 waiting for me. We all have our little attachments and superstitions.

  “What now?” I asked.

  Rusty asked, ”What kind of shape are you in?”

  “I’m OK, just a few cuts and burns. Nothing permanent.”

  “Good, you ride in the van with the I-Team and keep an eye on our friend here, while Evan and I follow in our cars. We don’t want to leave one around here.” I nodded. Any professional shadow job requires multiple vehicles; even an unsuspecting target can get suspicious if he sees the same car behind him for miles.

  Rusty continued, “We don’t know how much time we have before someone comes looking for …”

  “His name is Heinrich Vogelman.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Ah. That figures.” He had been at the briefing, too. “Anyway, we’ll take the body and both their cars and ditch them so if anybody comes sniffing around, they’ll just think Vogelmann is out … we hope.” He handed me his weapon. “Here, you watch Vogelmann while Evan and I clean up and get a couple members of the I-Team to drive their cars.”