Next to Lynch, Price was receiving a similar treatment from Faust’s other goon. Lynch seemed to remember Faust calling them “Klaus” and “Dieter” at one point that day, but he couldn’t keep straight which was which, not that it mattered. The two men seemed equally brutish, and equally enjoyed inflicting violence for the sense of power it gave them. When he had a moment to think straight, Lynch promised himself that, given a chance, he would ensure both of Faust’s thugs met a suitably violent end.
Lynch took another backhanded slap to the face, and as his head spun from the blow, his eyes briefly rested on the body of Pritchard, still tied upright in the chair to Lynch’s right. The blood and brains splattered all over the wall and the floor had dried somewhat, but the room still carried that all-too-familiar slaughterhouse smell. That they refused to take away Pritchard’s body after several hours had passed convinced Lynch that the corpse was simply being left in the room to distress and taunt them, to remind the two Commandos of their eventual fate.
This was the third visit so far today. After Faust had killed Pritchard, he and his men and left the Commandos alone in the room for several hours. Price and Lynch had said little to each other beyond the usual stoic platitudes tough men in captivity tend to mutter among themselves, such as “Don’t worry, we’ll get through this,” and “Wait until we get our hands on ‘em”. But the reality of their situation soon silenced both of them, and when these seemingly lackadaisical beatings started, it became clear Faust was just screwing with them, showing that he really didn’t care if they had any information of immediate value to him. And why should he? Price was a mere Commando lieutenant, Lynch a lowly corporal. When it came to the future uses of Britain’s Commando units, the two men probably knew far less than German High Command.
So, Lynch thought, this is what ‘expendable’ feels like.
“Das reicht,” Faust said softly. His two minions immediately ceased their beatings and stepped back, massaging their gloved hands and glowering at their respective victims.
Faust stopped leaning against the wall and stood up straight, idly wringing the pair of black leather gloves he held in his hands. He slowly walked over and stood in front of Lynch and Price, not speaking for almost a minute as the two men recovered.
“You think I am being gentle with you, yes?” Faust asked. “You are wondering when the questions will come? When the real pain begins?”
The two men looked up at him, neither bothering to answer. Faust smirked at them.
“Do not worry, the real pain will come soon enough,” Faust continued. “I like to gauge the constitution of my prisoners, slowly increasing their punishment. Some men - and you can never tell who it will be - grow so senseless from a beating that they are useless to me for hours. Other men, the more you beat them, the more they refuse to talk, hoping to fool their captors into killing them before information is extracted.”
Again, neither of the captives said anything. Lynch spat out a gobbet of bloody phlegm, hoping to hit Faust’s boot, but the missile landed a foot short. Faust just shook his head.
“I will admit,” he continued, “the first few times I was tricked into letting my men beat a prisoner to death, I did not understand why they would do such things. But one day, it dawned on me that men who possess no other control over their destinies, will take comfort in at least being able to determine the time and manner of their demise. I suppose it is no different than a criminal committing suicide while in prison on a life sentence; the prisoner hopes to control one last aspect of his life, and at the same time, steal that last victory from his captors.”
Faust gestured towards the spigot and bucket in the corner of the room. One of his men nodded, fetching the bucket. Half of its contents were poured over Price, the remainder over Lynch, partially washing away the blood and spittle that had accumulated.
“I now find myself in something of a quandary,” Faust continued. “The Wehrmacht knows of you now, knows that you are in my custody. Although you were dressed as German soldiers, it is clear to any but a complete idiot that this was a simple ruse of war, and you gentlemen are soldiers, not spies. In addition, our brothers-in-arms have no doubt informed their superior officers of the incident, so there is some record of your capture and detainment, and that record will eventually make its way back to High Command.
“So, I cannot just kill you out of hand. Your friend here,” Faust gestured to Pritchard’s corpse, “was of course shot trying to escape, foolish as that might have been. But for that to happen to all of you, it might look...excessive. Eventually someone is going to want to ship you back to Berlin, for interrogation and detainment. This will of course be a direct order issued to me by my superiors, and I will not disobey a direct order, no matter how much I may feel otherwise.
“On the other hand, we of the Einsatzgruppen have a great deal of freedom in our commands, and no one ever looks at our actions too closely, lest they lose their appetites. When this transfer order eventually arrives, if I am a few days late in delivering you to Berlin, or if you arrive in less than pristine condition, no one will show any concern.”
Faust stepped forward and moved to raise Price’s chin, as the Englishman refused to make eye contact with his captor. Price jerked away from Faust’s hand, and with surprising ferocity, the SS commander slashed a backhanded blow across Price’s face so hard, the Englishman’s chair nearly tipped over.
“You two Fieslinge cost me a lot of good men! Soldiers of the Reich who would have gone on to carry the eagle across the globe! Now they’ll rot on foreign soil, dead without glory, killed by tea-drinking tin soldiers playing at war! And because of this insult, I’m going to keep you here as long as I can.”
Faust crossed the distance to Lynch in one long stride and grabbed him by his hair, pulling the Irishman’s face around to look Faust in the eye.
“And while you are mine, I am going to make you pay.”
Faust let go of Lynch’s hair, wiping his fingers on his trousers. In an instant, he returned to his usual calm, collected manner, taking several steps back away from the Commandos.
“I think we are done for the day. I will see that you are fed and given water. I also despise the stink of Scheisse, so I will arrange for you to use a chamber pot rather than soil yourselves. Good day, gentlemen. We will begin again in the morning.”
With a nod to Klaus and Dieter, Faust turned and stepped up to the door, where he barked an order and the door was unbolted and opened from outside. The three men exited the room, and after the two guards outside gave the room and its occupants a final glance, they shut and bolted the door.
Several minutes passed before Price finally spoke. “Corporal, I think we’re in a bit of a jam.”
“Oh aye sir,” Lynch replied. “So we are.”
Chapter 17
The Partisans’ Cave
1800 Hours
McTeague opened his tired eyes, glancing around the room to ensure all was well within his immediate vicinity. Seeing no signs of danger, he yawned, sat up straight, and rolled his head around on his neck several times to work out the kinks earned from his less than ideal sleeping conditions. He quietly rose to his feet, not wanting to wake the men sleeping around him. They would be up all night, and possibly well into the next morning, and so like all good soldiers, if they could find time to sleep, they would. McTeague himself made sure to get a full eight hours, taking watch in the woods outside the cave after his porridge and a cup of tea.
But now, it was time to act.
Still moving carefully and quietly, McTeague began looking over his weapons and kit. He’d cleaned his Thompson and revolver upon returning from the mission, but McTeague looked over each of his Thompson’s 20-round magazines, making sure they were topped off. He pulled his revolver from its holster and made sure it was loaded, then confirmed he had at least two full reloads of spare rounds in his cartridge pouch. He then drew his dirk, testing the edge with a calloused thumb. Satisfied, he sheathed the weapon, then began
buckling on his webbing, filling his ammunition pouches with Thompson magazines and making sure he had four fragmentation grenades securely fastened.
McTeague had always considered himself something of a paradox. A huge bear of a man, he could be driven to feats of great physical violence, but over the years, he had learned to temper his anger, to focus it and ensure that it didn’t consume him, but instead drove him on to fight harder, faster, and more savagely than his enemies. He’d learned to wield his anger as just another weapon in his arsenal, brought forth only when he needed it most, when the lads under his protection were in danger, their only hope his immense capacity for violence. Right now, Dougal McTeague knew he would need every weapon at his disposal if he, and the men under his command, were to survive the night.
Focused on preparing his weapons and equipment, McTeague didn’t notice Nelson until the Commando cleared his throat. Looking up, McTeague saw the corporal standing in front of him, fully kitted, weapons ready. Behind him, the rest of the men were already stirring, gathering their weapons and belongings and brewing a last cup of tea before packing away their Primus stove. There was none of the usual grumbling or arse-scratching, just silent, professional men going about their business, preparing for battle. Harris and Miller were giving their Bren gun a final check, and Miller was making sure all the spare parts and tools were secured within the Bren’s “wallet” of accessories. They also looked over each of the 30-round magazines, making sure none of the feed lips were bent or cartridges stacked incorrectly in the magazines.
Off to one side, Hall had laid out his medical kit, and he was carefully arranging his supplies to best serve him in battlefield conditions, with tourniquets and ampules of morphine within easy reach, along with dressings and gauze pads. Sadly, even McTeague knew that no matter Hall’s skill in treating the wounds of war, in their current situation, a badly wounded man was unlikely to survive until they made it back to England, and his fate in the hands of the Germans was doubtful. The best chance of survival any of them had was to not get hit at all.
In another portion of the cave, White and Thatcher were preparing the partisans’ wireless set for travel. The device was their lifeline to England, and without it, they had no hope of arranging pickup if they missed their rendezvous tonight. Given the decision McTeague had already made, that made the wireless the single most important item in their possession.
McTeague looked back at Nelson, who met his gaze, an eyebrow raised. When they’d first come together back in April, McTeague had immediately labeled Nelson as a troublemaker, and with good reason. The team’s demolitions expert was a brute and a ruffian, and would probably find himself dead at the end of a noose one day. But right now, he was just the right sort of basher for the job at hand; killing Nazis with great enthusiasm and little regard for his own personal safety.
McTeague pulled his Tam O’Shanter down over his eyes and picked up his Thompson, the weapon looking small and almost toy-like in his great scarred fists. He gave Nelson a brief nod.
“Let’s go.”
Harry Nelson took in his sergeant’s determined stance, the pugnacious thrust of his jaw, and the dangerous glint in his eyes. McTeague’s demeanor could only mean one thing.
Nelson’s face broke into a wide grin.
“Why not, eh?” he replied. “Why bloody not.”
Chapter 18
Hotel Du Chevalier
2200 Hours
True to his word, Faust left Price and Lynch alone for the rest of the day. A couple of hours after their last beating, the guards had come in with two extra armed men and one of the hotel staff carrying a paper sack and a large tin pail. One at a time, each of the Commandos was untied, then allowed to stand and walk around the room enough to gain some circulation back in their limbs. They were given two rolls of stale bread and two ladles of water from the spigot, and then provided the tin pail as a chamber pot. Neither of the men particularly cared for doing their bathroom business while being covered by four machine pistols and snickered at by the men who carried them, but in the army one quickly learned to not be squeamish about such things. Soon the hotel staffer, an elderly Frenchman, was carrying away the tin pail as if it was a bomb about to go off.
Now, four hours later, the door to the room opened again, and the two guards outside let a wounded soldier into the room. The left side of the man’s face was heavily bandaged, spots of blood soaking through, and dark purple bruises had formed across much of his features. Lynch wondered if he was one of the SS who’d been wounded when he threw the grenade from the back of the Blitz, imagining fragments of shrapnel slashing the man’s face, the concussion knocking him head-first into a wall. The soldier’s features looked somehow familiar, and although Lynch didn’t remember actually seeing the man as they’d fled, it was the only thing that made sense.
The Guards exchanged a few words with the wounded soldier that Lynch didn’t understand, then the soldier walked over to the spigot in the corner of the room and used it to fill the bucket there. Without a word, he limped back to Lynch and Price, and using the ladle, gave each man several mouthfuls of water, glaring at them balefully with his one good eye. The soldier then placed the bucket and ladle back in the corner, and muttering angrily to himself, he began to walk back towards the door when he suddenly shouted some German obscenity and lashed out, his booted foot connecting with Lynch’s shoulder and knocking the Commando over onto the floor.
Immediately, the other two guards grabbed the wounded man by the shoulders and hauled him back, berating him for losing his temper. The man sighed and shrugged and gestured towards his face, apparently rationalizing it but sounding embarrassed. He raised his hands in mock capitulation, and walked over to Lynch, circling around behind him and bending down to pick him up by the back of the chair.
As the wounded German did this, Lynch suddenly felt something small and metallic pressed into the palm of his hand, and the German leaned in close and whispered in his ear.
“For King and Country. The guards change shifts in two hours. Good luck.”
Lynch had enough presence of mind to keep his features straight, only sneering and giving the “German” a dirty look as he walked away. The soldier apologized to the guards again as he exited, and they shut and bolted the door.
“That rotten scoundrel!” Price muttered. “I say, of all the nerve!”
“Nerve is right,” Lynch replied. “But not the kind you think. That was Smythe.”
Price blinked several times and did a double-take towards the door. “What?”
Lynch nodded. “He told me the guards change shifts in two hours.”
“Well, bloody lot of good that does us,” Price muttered.
“Actually,” Lynch said with a smile, “it does us quite a bit of good. He slipped me a clasp knife when he was picking me up off the floor.”
Price’s face lit up, and he began to nod. “Well done, my dear Mister Smythe! I must admit, I felt he rather tweaked our noses when Harry buggered the rescue and Smythe just walked away without so much as a by-your-leave. But I’m willing to forgive him if he’s spent the whole day flannel-footing it about right under Faust’s nose, and dressed as one of his men, no less.”
“I don’t care what he’s bloody done,” Lynch replied. “All I know is, we’ve got a chance to make a break for it and leg it out of this bloody city.”
“Can you get the knife open?” Price asked.
Lynch carefully worked his nail into the notch on the knife blade, and slowly pried the knife open. With a soft click the blade snapped into position. Lynch carefully tested the edge with his thumb, wary not to cut himself, and discovered the blade had been honed to a razor’s edge.
“More than sharp enough to get the job done, to be sure,” he replied.
“All right then,” Price said, nodding. “We wait until the guards change, give them a little while to see if they are going to check on us, and when it seems all is quiet, we cut ourselves free, attract their attention, take them
out, and make our escape.”
“Oh aye,” Lynch answered with a grin. “I can smell the shepherd’s pie already.”
Price chuckled. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a long sigh.
“Right now,” he said, “I would love nothing more than to open my eyes and find myself waking up in my own bed, back at the family estate. My brothers and cousins and I could spend the day hunting pheasants, and when we came back in the afternoon we’d hand the day’s game to the help, have a tall glass of gin and tonic with plenty of ice and a wedge of lime, and then off to the back lawn for a game of croquet.
“We’d end the game just as the ladies called for us to wash up, and we’d have roasted pheasant with potatoes and greens, along with a nice glass of wine. Afterwards, the gentlemen would retire to the parlour, where we’d enjoy cigars and brandy and reminisce about the day’s hunting, and who was the better marksman with the mallet.”
Price turned to Lynch and opened his eyes. “That, that would be my perfect day.”
Lynch smiled and thought for a moment.
“Me and the other lads, we would spend the day playing football. A right brutal lot, we were, back in the Regiment. We’d knock at least a few of us silly every game, and you didn’t really play if there wasn’t blood on your jersey by the end.
“But when it was all over bar the shouting, we’d wander over to the nearest pub and the pints would be passed around and all would be forgiven. I always liked a good Smithwick’s, or maybe a Beamish. We’d call for toasts, and surely the boasting would begin. Off in the corner a seisiún would start playing their music. Harp and fiddle, Uilleann pipes and a Bodhran setting the beat. Soon we’d be stamping our feet and clapping our hands, and we’d all sing along, even if we couldn’t carry a tune in a tin pail.”
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 25