Code of Combat

by Michael Asher

  Caine wondered where this was leading. Were the Nazis going to put him on trial for being a soldier? He remembered the three Brandenburgers he’d once butchered with a rusty knife, shivered inwardly.

  ‘It’s a war,’ he said wearily. ‘In wars you kill the enemy.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Quite so. Quite so.’ Grolsch crossed his legs, scratched the back of his head, as if he had something to say but didn’t quite know how to say it. ‘You see, my superiors are a nuisance, Captain. Now, I know, for instance, that you were captured by our Airborne Division at the Senarca bridge, near Termoli, after an action in which you and your men fought bravely. My superiors, however, will, I’m sure, be inclined to insist that you are a saboteur.’

  He said the word with distaste, as if it were a curse.

  ‘I’m an officer captured in uniform.’

  ‘Yes, of course you are. But I don’t believe that my superiors will accept this as an excuse. You are a commando and a saboteur, they will say, and you are therefore subject to special handling.’

  An icy block liquefied in Caine’s chest. Five broken sacred ibises. Five tombstones in the forest.

  ‘They will say that you SAS-men are subject to the Kommandobefehl – the Commando Order – issued by the Führer himself, stating that British commandos or sabotage-troops, even if they are soldiers in uniform, are to be slaughtered.’

  ‘What?’ The word had escaped Caine before he could stop it.

  The Sturmbannführer threw up his hands, shook his head despairingly.

  ‘Yes, I know. Slaughtered. But there it is.’ He scrabbled among the papers again, came up with a sheet stamped with a swastika crest typed in Gothic script. ‘Here, in black and white.’

  He put on a pair of wire-framed glasses, began reading. ‘“I will hold responsible under military law all commanders or officers who neglect this order, or question it when it is to be executed.” Signed “Adolf Hitler.”’

  Caine stared at him: was the Kraut pronouncing his death sentence?

  Butterfield was right. They must have murdered the five men who’d dropped with him, kept the major alive because they thought he might talk. Why was Grolsch telling him this, though? You don’t warn people if you’re going to kill them. He’s got to be after something.

  Grolsch laid the paper back on his desk, drummed his fingers on the wood. He turned to the young woman still drinking coffee behind the typewriter. ‘Maria, please go and get Amray.’

  The blonde girl nodded, scurried out of the room. Grolsch moved around his desk, sat on the front with his arms crossed.

  ‘Have you ever thought,’ he said at last, ‘that the Bolshies – the Russians, I mean – are a far more dangerous threat to Britain than the Germans?’

  ‘As far as I know, the Soviet Union is our ally.’

  ‘The Bolshevik dream is world domination. I admit that this has been a bad year for us on the Russian front, what with Stalingrad and von Paulus’s surrender. We are renewing our efforts, though, and we are trying to recruit a corps of British POWs to help. Several hundred of your countrymen are already with us. They are training to fight the . . . what is it you call it? . . . the Red Peril.’

  For a moment, Caine thought it must be a joke. He’d met traitors and stool pigeons – Jerries like Eisner, who’d been brought up outside Germany and could pass as Brits. It had never occurred to him that a trueblooded Brit would actually fight for the Nazis.

  He heard the door open: Grolsch stood up. ‘You can hear it from . . . how do you say? . . . the horse’s mouth.’

  Caine turned to see a man in field-grey approaching.

  ‘This is SS-Hauptsturmführer John Amray,’ Grolsch said, ‘of the British Free Corps. I shall leave you two to talk.’

  Grolsch went out: the two guards with rifles came back in, hovered by the door. Caine stood, faced the newcomer, not quite believing what he was seeing. An Englishman in Nazi uniform.

  Amray was taller than Caine – a knotty, wedge-shaped man with razor-hasp jaws, a fleshy nose and black, haunted eyes. His uniform was the standard Jerry battledress, with a peaked forage cap. On his sleeve, though, he wore a Union Jack flash in the shape of a shield, with three lions passant guardant in gold on his right collar.

  Caine refused the proffered hand. ‘You’re not really British, are you? You’re part Kraut?’

  Amray grimaced, showed bad teeth. ‘British as tea and crumpets, old bean. Born in London. Father was a rubber-planter in Malaya – went to work out there when I was eighteen.’ The voice was cultivated. ‘Joined the New Zealand army when the war started, ended up in Greece in ’41. Got bagged by Jerry.’

  Caine scowled. ‘A lot of men get bagged. They don’t all become traitors.’

  ‘Sticks and stones, chummy. Sticks and stones.’

  ‘Come on, man. This must be some sort of trick.’

  Amray shook his head. ‘It’s no trick. Signed up with the Waffen SS, swore an oath of allegiance to the Führer, the lot. Only to fight the Bolshies, mind, not against our own chaps.’

  Caine’s fists tightened: he had to take a deep breath to control himself. Just being here, talking to a man who’d sold himself to the enemy, made his flesh creep. Amray leaned against the desk where Grolsch had just been sitting: he brought out a silver cigarette case, flipped the lid, offered one to Caine. Caine shook his head stiffly. Amray shrugged, took a fag, tapped it on the case twice, let it droop from his mouth, lit it with a silver lighter. He blew smoke in a long, cool stream.

  ‘Now look, Caine, I’ll make it short and sweet. I know what you’re thinking. I felt like that at first. Natural, isn’t it? But be honest with yourself. Haven’t you ever felt that you were just a pawn in the game, being moved around by the brass? Haven’t you ever felt that they were incompetent imbeciles who regarded you as mere cannon fodder?’

  The question was so unexpected that Caine almost answered yes. It was true. He’d felt like that, especially on these Italian operations. The SAS weren’t supposed to be shock troops, yet that was how they’d been deployed: cannon fodder – all those years of experience behind enemy lines wasted. And the shit they handed me on Nighthawk: lost almost my whole section, risked my life saving GHQ from a germ-warfare agent. Then the officer I proved was a traitor got away with it. You can betray your king and country, as long as you have friends in high places.

  It was all there, he realized: the years of bitterness, of being cheated, lied to, set up as an Aunt Sally as they slowly changed him from a man into a demon. ‘You ain’t Captain Caine, you’re the devil.’

  ‘There’s a war on,’ he said. ‘Someone’s got to be the boss. Do you think Jerry’d be any better? Do you want to see Hitler running things back home?’

  Amray let smoke waft through both nostrils. ‘Bound to come, Caine, bound to come. And when it does, men like us in the Free Corps – we’ll be sitting pretty. I’d expect to be a general, at least.’

  Caine snorted. Amray stood up, jabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, regarded Caine with condescension. ‘You can scoff, old boy, but let me tell you, they can make life very hot for you SAS people. They say you’re saboteurs and spies, you see, not real soldiers. And we all know what happens to saboteurs and spies.’ He drew a finger across his throat. ‘Seven of your SAS-men were taken away a few days ago – one of them was dragged out of the hospital wing. Nothing to do with me: all I know is that they refused my offer. There’s your cell-mate, Major Butterfield. He hasn’t been very cooperative. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the same fate awaited him.’

  Caine’s fists tightened: he had to press them to his sides to stop himself lashing out. ‘Those are our own men you’re talking about, you bastard.’

  Amray looked annoyed. ‘I was doing them a favour. I gave them a chance to avoid anything unpleasant. I mean, why let that happen when you could be fighting the Bolshies? Imagine them running round Blighty, shagging the women, eh? Perish the thought. All right, you have to wear a Jerry uniform, but killing Russkies can
’t really be called treason, can it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  Amray shook his head pityingly. ‘Think it over, Caine. You’ll never escape: they’ve got this place sewn up tighter than a duck’s arse. The moment you join the British Free Corps, though, you’re free – women, booze, you name it. Better than spending the rest of the war in a prison-camp. Much better than ending up in a shallow grave with a bullet in the head.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Villa Montefalcone, Le Marche, Italy

  4 October 1943

  From her apartment, Emilia could hear voices like far-away, snarling dogs: the Krauts were in the wine-cellar, getting through her family’s best vintages. Good luck to them. The more drunk they are, the better, she thought.

  She opened the door, peered down the shadowed corridor. The chair normally occupied by the guard was empty.

  She closed the door, returned to her room, put on a blouse, sweater, slacks, soft-soled shoes, tied back her hair, paused to examine her bruised neck and face in the bathroom mirror. The swine treated me like an animal. It wasn’t just about the Codex. He enjoyed doing it to me. He’s turned on by domination: a weak man trying to prove to himself that he’s strong. If I get through this, I’ll see that Nazi bastard burn in hell.

  It was the second day after Stengel’s assault: she was still sore, but at least the bleeding had stopped. Her main worry was that she’d suffered some serious internal injury: she needed a medical examination, but she knew the Cabbage-Heads would never allow a doctor through the cordon.

  Stengel hadn’t told her when he’d be back. He might pop up any minute, and when he did, she didn’t want to be there. Why had he left her at home when he could have had her taken to the prison-camp at Jesi? Because he wants to do it to me again. He wants a slave he can abuse in private.

  For a moment her nostrils were filled with his smell: his sweat, the revolting eau de cologne: she heard his feral grunting. She gagged, let out a sob, held on tight to the sides of the basin. Then she forced herself to stand up straight. No, I’m not going let that stronzo terrorize me. I’m going to get out.

  The frustrating thing was that, if she’d had the run of the house, escape wouldn’t have been that difficult. The foundations of the villa were riddled with passages, stairways, tunnels, ancient catacombs, some of them older than the house itself. One of the tunnels led to a door hidden in the forest. If she could only slip out that way, she could find Ettore, take refuge with the partisans, live rough in the woods.

  The problem was getting access to the cellars with the Krauts in the house. It was Angostina, her housekeeper, who’d suggested letting them into the wine-cellar. There’s more wine down there than they could drink in a lifetime. When they get legless they’ll forget you’re even here. Your father would turn in his grave, but let them have a party.

  It was risky, though. If she got caught, the boozed-up pigs might do anything to her. ‘Ma tira ti su,’ Angostina had said. Remember Marco Pellati?

  She did remember. Out riding in the woods, thirteen years old: Marco Pellati, about her age, had shot her mare with a catapult. The horse threw her, galloped off: she sprained an ankle. The boy ran away: probably wanted to do more but didn’t have the guts. Her ankle was swollen and painful but, instead of heading back home, she’d hobbled off in search of the mare. By the time she’d tracked her down, the ankle was the size of a football and she was sobbing in agony. She calmed the horse, rode her back home, refused to tell anyone but Angostina what had happened. When the ankle was right again, she found a stick, waited for Pellati as he walked home, thrashed the living daylights out of him.

  Years later, the youth had apologized. He’d been madly in love with her: he’d just wanted to bring himself to the notice of the count’s daughter.

  She’d promised her father that she would protect Ettore, the villa and the Codex. Ettore was beyond her control now, but she’d done the best she could: she had always known she might have to abandon the house one day. The Allies were pushing up the Adriatic coast, but the Germans were still pouring troops into Italy: they wouldn’t give up without a fight. They might occupy the villa, but they would never find the Codex.

  It lies in a room with no doors or windows, she thought.

  She paced down the landing, carrying an unlit torch, a handbag slung over her shoulder. She cocked an ear for movement, heard tuneless singing rising from the cellar. Have a good time, boys. The landing passed the main staircase at right angles, continued into another wing of the house. She had only to make the small dressing-room on the other side, where a hidden stairway led down into the warren of cellars. It would bring her dangerously close to the boozing Jerries, but at least she wouldn’t be bumping into any of them on the way.

  She drew abreast of the stairhead, where the wooden handrail ended in an ornate spiral flourish: the staircase curved down sinuously: marble steps sheathed in purple pile, between wrought-iron banisters topped with polished wood. The hall had a domed ceiling from which dangled a crystal chandelier: the space beneath was lit by oblongs of moonlight through arched windows: it was austere and unfurnished except for a round table, carved upright chairs standing against the walls. The door leading to the cellars was directly opposite the foot of the stairs: it was in darkness, but Emilia heard unsteady footsteps coming from that direction, saw the red glow of a cigarette-end approaching. She froze, felt her heart bump, stifled a breath. Is it the guard? What if he comes up?

  A figure emerged from the doorway into a block of light – a heavy soldier with a head like a wooden block. She caught a glint of gunmetal, heard an indistinct mutter. He’s talking to himself – the guy’s loaded. As she watched, the man dropped the cigarette on the stone flags, ground it out with a boot, turned and, with one hand on the banister, started to stagger upstairs.

  Emilia ran. She heard the floorboards creak, heard the German yell: blood screamed in her ears. She raced down the landing, found the room she was looking for. She let herself in, locked the door behind her, leaned on it, tried to get her breath back. She heard unsteady footsteps, drunken shouts. A dozen rooms open off this corridor: he’ll never know which one I’m in.

  The room was wood-panelled, lined with massive Gothic armoires decorated with elaborate iron hinges and locks: a threadbare Persian rug lay on the floor: the wall was festooned with wine-coloured draperies. A fine cabinet on elegantly curved legs, set on casters, hid the secret entrance. Emilia rolled the piece aside, found the panel in the wall, slid it open, shone her torch down a narrow, dark stairwell. The soldier roared suddenly from outside: fists pounded on wood. Emilia squeezed through the opening. He’s knocking at random. He can’t know I’m in here. Emilia closed the panel behind her, began to make her way down the stairs.

  The steps seemed to go on for ever, into the bowels of the earth. As she approached the bolted door at the foot, she heard singing. ‘Lili Marlene’. Don’t they ever get tired of that morbid dirge? At least the guard upstairs hasn’t alerted them. Maybe he’s passed out.

  She hesitated: the door opened into an underground tunnel that led past the wine-cellar, into the maze of store-rooms and catacombs where other secret entrances were concealed. She had no choice but to pass the cellar. She suddenly wished she hadn’t come this way: there were other hidden passages she could have used, but they involved crawling for miles through confined spaces in pitch darkness: she hadn’t been in them since she was a child. I’m here: there’s no turning back. She put away her torch, eased open the door: its creaking made her wince. She stared out into the darkness, heard the discordant resonance of male voices, took in the glow of lamplight from the cellar entrance. It was only a few yards away.

  She steeled herself. Come on. You’ve only got to get past that, and you’ll be free. She pressed herself against the wall, felt the cold comfort of stone, eased herself along it towards the block of light. Four more paces. Three. Two. She was just about to step across the light-spill when there came a piercing w
histle from behind her, a cracked voice bawling German. The singing stopped. Emilia’s blood turned cold: a soldier clad in a vest and trousers burst through the doorway, saw her, cocked his Schmeisser, scowled, ‘Bewegen Sie sich nicht!’

  The man was heavy-set and muscular, with stuffed biceps, a globular head, bald as a bone. He stepped towards her: half a dozen more Jerries lurched out of the cellar, closed in on her. She backed against the wall. The bald man laid the muzzle of his sub-machine gun between her breasts: his eyes were phosphorescent marbles. ‘Schauen Sie, Jungen!’ he said. ‘Ve hev got now a little chicken to eat.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  The bald Jerry hooted, let the muzzle of his weapon drop. He closed a big hand over her right breast, pushed his belly against her, lowered his bull head: she felt his hardness on her crotch, saw soapcurd eyes and thick lips, smelt sour wine-breath. ‘Just one little kiss. I want to . . .’

  ‘SS-Mann Stolbe. Lassen Sie sie!’

  The order cracked out like a lash: the bald man checked himself, let her go, retreated. The others snapped to attention. Emilia saw a young officer standing by the door with a pistol in his hand: he had the keen eyes and angular face of a fox: he was hatless but otherwise properly dressed. He marched forward, boots clicking on the stone flags, shoved the bald man out of the way, snarled something at him, eyed Emilia. ‘I am SS-Hauptsturmführer Kaltenbraun. Where are you going, Fräulein?’

  ‘I . . . I was looking for my housekeeper.’

  ‘In the cellars? Your staff hev strange habits, no?’

  He took a step closer, holstered his pistol. ‘Herr Stengel gave orders that you were not to leave your rooms.’ He looked round: a sloppily dressed soldier sidled into view, a whistle still stuck in his mouth: it was the blockheaded man Emilia had glimpsed on the stairs. ‘SS-Mann Karloff here left his post,’ the fox-faced officer said. ‘He will be punished.’