The other two soldiers appeared more awake, although both had been badly knocked about by the wreck and the men who’d captured them. They sat in their chairs and said nothing, staring at the Germans surrounding them from under hooded eyes, as water ran down their faces from out of their hair, streaking their features with blood and dirt. One of them was blond and handsome, his features almost Aryan. He could have been related to Ritter, except for a certain boyish softness which Faust attributed to his degenerate British upbringing. The man attempted to sit up straight and give an air of stoic indifference towards his situation. Faust assumed he was a junior officer of some kind.
The other man was black-haired and blue-eyed, but although he was also handsome, there was an intensity, a dangerous cruelness to his looks that reminded Faust of a chained panther, just waiting for the zookeeper to get too close. Faust didn’t think the blond man would offer any trouble, but the black-haired soldier was dangerous even now. Faust had the urge to give his Mauser a reassuring touch, but checked the movement, not wanting to show any sign that he was nervous standing around three bound and wounded prisoners with five other armed SS in the room.
Faust decided he’d let them wait long enough. “Give me your names, ranks, and your unit,” he said in English.
The two others glanced at the blond man, confirming Faust’s suspicion as to his rank. He stepped up to the blond soldier and looked down at the man.
“You, you are the leader. Give me your name.”
The blond man cleared his throat. “My name is Lieutenant David Price. I am a British soldier in His Majesty’s army and I require fair treatment for myself and my men as per the regulations set by the Geneva Convention relative to the treatment of prisoners of war, effective July, 1931.”
Faust gave Price a smirk and took a step back. With one fluid motion, he drew his Mauser and fired a single shot. The bullet punched through Pritchard’s forehead right above his nose and blew out the back of his skull, spraying the wall behind him with blood, bone fragments, and clots of pulped brain. Pritchard’s head snapped back from the bullet’s impact, then nodded slowly forward.
The reaction from the two men told Faust everything he needed to know. Lieutenant Price sat even more upright and began to shout in protest, carrying on about war crimes and trials and the murder of soldiers and acts of cruel barbarity. It was the typical claptrap spewed by those who somehow felt you could fight wars with neatly typed and bound pages of rules and regulations, timetables and dictums, generalship by telegram and carrier pigeon.
The black-haired man, on the other hand, said nothing. After he had jerked from the initial shock of his comrade’s murder, Faust saw the man tense and try his bonds as hard as he could, as if attempting to break free and throw himself at his captors. When that didn’t work, the man sat and glared at Faust silently, his expression dark and murderous. Faust had no doubt that if the man had somehow broken free of his bonds, he’d have leapt at Faust, intending to avenge his friend with nothing but his bare hands, despite the fact that he’d have been cut to pieces by several automatic weapons the moment he cleared his seat.
Yes indeed. Most illuminating, Faust thought.
He held up a gloved hand, and waited for Price’s bellowing to subside.
“I apologize for such a rude demonstration,” Faust said. “But, I felt it necessary for two reasons. First, to demonstrate how completely powerless you are at this moment, and how your continued state of well-being hinges on my wishes.
“Second, I wished to make you aware of my interpretation of your captivity as it pertains to the convention you have been carrying on about. You came here, into German-occupied territory, dressed in German army uniforms and carrying German weapons, murdering my men and absconding with a known terrorist. In my mind, this does not make you soldiers at all. You are, as far as I am concerned, British spies and terrorists yourselves, and as such, you do not fall under the protections of your precious convention any more than a common criminal would.”
That shut the Englishman up, Faust noted. He turned to the black-haired man. “Now, what is your name?” he asked.
The man said nothing. He just stared at Faust with his panther’s gaze. After a few seconds, Price turned to him. “Tell him. That’s an order.”
Slowly, the man turned and regarded his officer with an expression of disgust, but after meeting his superior’s own stony expression, the man turned back to Faust.
“My name is Thomas Lynch. I am a corporal in the British army. The man you just murdered was John Pritchard, also a British soldier.”
Faust smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it now? Your accent, Corporal Lynch. You are an Irishman, yes?”
Lynch said nothing, but Faust nodded to himself and continued. “You serve in the British armed forces, and yet, your nation maintains a position of neutrality, does it not?”
“Aye, the Free State is neutral,” Lynch replied with a sneer. “But I’m from Northern Ireland, so I am. And your bloody bombers didn’t think us neutral when they blitzed half of soddin’ Belfast this spring, did they now?”
“Ah, my apologies,” Faust replied. “Tell me then, why would you fight for a dying empire, one that has subjugated your people for generations, an empire that has dragged you into this war, a war that has now brought death and destruction to your homeland? You appear to be what, twenty? Twenty-two years of age? You would have been born around the time your countrymen fought for their freedom against those just like this man sitting next to you.” Faust gestured towards Price.
Lynch didn’t reply, but Faust saw him make a furtive glance towards Price.
“I have studied the Irish people to some degree,” Faust said. “They are a proud people, with a long history and noble culture. The Celtic peoples are similar in many ways to the Germanic peoples, and it is a pity to see them reduced to this...this servitude under the heel of such soft, degenerate, bloated bureaucrats, men such as your lieutenant who would rather talk and argue documents and regulations instead of waging war the way it should be fought, without quarter asked or given.”
At this, Lynch turned and looked at Price, who shook his head. “Corporal, don’t...”
Lynch turned back to Faust. “Listen to me now, you stinking piece of dogshite. I would rather scrub King George’s pale arse with a bath sponge than be a part of your bloody madness, so I would. Whatever I may think of the sodding English, they wouldn’t shoot a helpless man between his bloody eyes just to make a point.”
Faust chuckled and nodded to Price while gesturing towards Lynch. “Well Lieutenant, I see your dog has some loyalty to his master after all. How touching. Still, by the time we are done here, I will wager you some of your British pounds sterling I’ll convince him to shoot you. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even give him a field promotion.”
“Sod off now, you filthy bleedin’ Hun bastard!” Lynch growled at Faust.
Faust smiled and turned, walking towards the door. He looked to the two gaolers.
“You may give them water, and feed them later tonight. Leave their dead friend where he is, and don’t clean anything. Perhaps the smell will give these two something to think about.”
And with that, Faust left the room, his gloved fingers tapping out a marching rhythm against the butt of his pistol.
Chapter 14
The Partisans’ Cave
0630 Hours
Despite what he’d said to Nelson back at the roadblock, McTeague had entertained hopes that Price and the others had simply been delayed, and that they’d somehow win through and escape the city. The two-vehicle convoy had made their way to a rally point two miles beyond the roadblock, far enough away to get some breathing room but close enough that even men on foot could get there eventually. McTeague decided they’d wait until half an hour before sunrise, and even then he gave them five minutes more. But eventually, it became clear that something had befallen the rest of the rescue party, and if they didn’t move, it would be too light out, and they could
be spotted easily from the air as they made their way back to the hill.
When McTeague and the others returned to the partisan’s hiding place, their mood was more akin to mourners returning from a funeral than soldiers returning from a successful rescue operation. Successful in that their objective, the rescue of Bouchard, had been accomplished. But the loss of five Commandos, as well as Marie Coupé, weighed heavily on all of them. McTeague saw several of his men glowering in the direction of Bouchard and Chenot, and there were more than a few muttered comments.
McTeague stepped over to Nelson as the men filed into the cave. “Harry, you’re second-in-command now. I need your help keeping the rest of the lads in line. I know we’re in a bad spot, but we cannae let ourselves fall apart.”
“None of the other lads are happy we lost so many of our own just to save one bloody Frenchie, Sergeant,” Nelson muttered.
McTeague nodded. “Aye, I agree, it doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me neither. But orders is orders, and we’re to hold ourselves to a higher standard than the usual odds and sods. That’s why we signed up for this bloody outfit.”
“Well, I’ll do my best, but the lads aren’t going to listen to me. I just earned my new stripe a few weeks ago.”
“The trick, Harry me boy,” McTeague said with a grin. “is to make ‘em do as they’re told without ever realizing it.”
Nelson barked a short laugh. “Oh, is that it then? I thought your secret was to clobber us troublemakers with profanity or your bloody fists!”
“Oh aye, that works for me,” McTeague said with a chuckle. “But you need a few more inches and a stone or two more muscle to make that work.”
Nelson, who wasn’t a small man by any means, shot McTeague a dirty look followed by a roguish grin, then he wandered over to where the other Commandos were dropping their gear and preparing the Primus stove for tea. McTeague watched Nelson banter and jest with the other men, and the Scotsman turned away, smiling. Without even realizing he was obeying orders, Nelson had taken McTeague’s direction and moved to distract the other men from the disaster that had occurred.
And disaster it truly was, at least for their small band. Without Price, Lynch, or Bowen, the Commandos had lost most of their senior men. McTeague remained confident that he could keep the rest in line, at least for the time being, but although Price had shared with him and the other non-commissioned officers the protocol for contacting England over the partisan’s wireless, McTeague was nowhere near as confident in his ability to get everyone back home alive and well.
Although the men made fun of Price’s effete manner and cultured accent behind his back, they all knew he was a fighting man who never took on airs of superiority above his obvious rank. Price was a combat leader, a man who took charge and led from the front ranks, and it was this quality that helped calm the men in times of crisis, easing their uncertainties and boosting their morale. McTeague knew he could bluster and cajole the men into doing what they were told, but he didn’t possess the air of assured, easy confidence that Price wore about him like a mantle.
McTeague watched as Chenot helped Bouchard find a comfortable seat in the back of the cave, the pair reminding McTeague of a young man helping his elderly father. The partisan leader’s leg was bleeding again, a red stain soaking through his pants, and a sheen of sweat coated his forehead. McTeague walked over to the two men, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Well Mister Bouchard, I imagine you’re glad to be out from under Jerry’s heel, eh?” he asked, towering over the two Frenchmen.
Bouchard nodded and accepted a flask of water from Chenot. Taking a sip, he sighed and nodded. “Oui. The man Faust was malevolent. He intended to break me down, bit by bit, in order to understand what drove me to hunt and kill the Boche, as if that required any explanation.”
“Aye, that does sound peculiar,” McTeague replied. “I suppose you are aware that a number of our men didn’t escape Calais? The second lorry didn’t follow yours.”
“I saw them pull out of the alleyway,” Bouchard said with a frown. “But we accelerated quickly to catch up to the Kübelwagen. I did not see what happened to them.”
McTeague grunted and looked away. “I’ll ask White to get on the wireless as soon as the lads finish their brew up. We’ll contact London and arrange transport for you lot back to Blighty.”
Bouchard frowned. “Surely you will be coming with us, no?”
McTeague shook his head. “I need to know what happened to Price and the others. That includes your Miss Marie, by the way.”
The last sentence caused Bouchard to turn and look sharply at Chenot, who blushed and wouldn’t meet his gaze. McTeague realized the younger man hadn’t told his leader of Marie’s involvement in the rescue attempt.
“She insisted on being part of the mission,” Chenot finally told Bouchard, a note of embarrassment in his voice. “I do not control her any more than you do. Besides, we needed every rifle.”
Bouchard’s face took on a look of dismay, and his shoulders sagged at the news. “I hope her death is quick and merciful, but if she was captured by the SS, there is little chance of that. With any luck, she took her own life before they could overpower her.”
McTeague gave the two partisans a grim look. Right now, considering their loss of life, Bouchard seemed an unworthy trade. He turned around and began walking away.
“I’ll let you two gents know as soon as we hear back from England,” he said, speaking over his shoulder.
McTeague found Lance Corporal White enjoying his first few sips of hot tea. Almost in spite of his last name, White had a head of thick black hair and a dark, olive-skinned completion, with shaggy eyebrows like a pair of moustaches over his eyes, and stubble that grew in dark and heavy within hours of his last shave. The signals expert looked like he’d be more at home in the trappings of an Afghan raider than wearing khaki battledress and a Commando’s stocking cap. McTeague asked White to work with the partisans and use their captured wireless set to contact headquarters in order to find out where and when the partisans could be picked up. He also asked him to inform England that the Commandos would be staying behind until the fate of their comrades could be determined.
White’s bushy eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline at the last comment. “Sergeant? How will we ever find out what happened to Tommy and the others? They could be dead, or in that Jerry headquarters, or carted off somewhere else in the city, or blimey, they might be on a train right now, headed for Berlin. Sniffing about Calais sounds like a mug’s game to me, no offense, Sergeant.”
McTeague’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew into a thin line. “Listen ‘ere, lad. Those are our brothers-in-arms, and we aren’t leaving this bloody country until we know for sure what’s happened to them. I’d want you lot to do the same for me, was I in their shoes, and we’d do the same for you, don’t you forget it.”
“But Lieutenant Price,” White replied. “I would think he’d want us to escape, to get away free and clear.”
“There’s an important difference between what a man will say,” McTeague replied, “and what he really means. I’ve seen wounded men tell you to go on without them, when their eyes are begging you to pick ‘em up and carry them to safety. The lieutenant is a brave man, but alive or dead, someone should know what’s happened.”
White shrugged his shoulders and looked down sheepishly into his mug of milky tea. “I s’pose you have a point there, Sergeant. I’ll pass the message along.”
McTeague left White and found a spot to sit down and take a load off of his feet. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders like a leaden yoke, and he scrubbed his hands across his face several times in an attempt to wake himself up. Except for a couple hours’ worth of sleep during the day yesterday, after the mission’s planning had been finished, he’d not gotten a solid night’s rest in three days. Although the Commando teams trained to the peak of physical endurance, to be able to soldier on day after day, moving and fighting without rest, the truth
of the matter was that even the best-conditioned men dulled quickly under such circumstances.
Without even thinking about it, McTeague began breaking down and cleaning his Thompson and his Webley, removing any gunpowder residue and oiling the weapons to prevent rust. He hadn’t expended much ammunition, but with almost half the team missing, their firepower was significantly reduced. He’d have to see what the partisans had cached here to supplement their own arms. Looking about the cave as he cleaned his weapons, McTeague examined the floor and the walls, seeing signs of human tools having worked the stone long years ago, perhaps even centuries past.
Out of the corner of his eye, McTeague saw Madame Souliere walking over, a steaming bowl of porridge in her hands. The older woman knelt beside him and offered the hot meal with a smile.
“There is not much left. If we are to leave soon, better to eat than rot in the cave, no?” she asked.
McTeague nodded, finding himself too tired and hungry to reply. He took the bowl from her and spooned a portion into his mouth. He almost choked on it, gasping at how hot it was, and he burned his tongue before he managed to swallow it.
“Be careful! It is hot! Let it cool first!” she exclaimed.
McTeague laughed and took a swig from his canteen to cool his tongue. “Aye, now you tell me! But it’s good anyway, and I’m too hungry to wait.”
In short order he ate several more spoonfuls, remembering to blow on each and cool the thick porridge down before taking a bite. The Frenchwoman remained next to him, watching him eat, but McTeague was too focused on putting food in his belly to notice. Finally he glanced at her, slightly embarrassed.
“Please pardon my manners, ma’am. Thank you for this, it is much appreciated.”
She shook her head. “It is nothing, do not worry. You are tired and hungry and you mean no disrespect. My husband and I are glad to see you and your men once more. We never thought to see the English again so soon.”
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 23