MATT HELM: The War Years (23 page)

I had to get myself captured by Price, but that didn’t mean I had to just sit there, waiting for someone to come up and get the drop on me – or hit me over the head with something.  With all the literature on the subject, people had a tendency to overestimate the durability of the human scalp.  Not to mention that several good men and women have died, probably amazed and incredulous, at the hands of inexperienced and frightened jerks who'd cut loose when no reasonable person would have dreamed of pulling a trigger.  I figured the world could afford to do without one or two of the jerks who picked up guns and went hunting a Helm.  Getting mad at a man who has a gun, or lots of men who have lots of guns, is not only stupid, it is dangerous.  I have a very primitive reaction.  Any time anybody comes after me with a gun, or points a gun at me and tells me to do something he has no right to tell me to do, I find my mind filled with one simple thought: "How do I kill this sonofabitch?"

He really wasn’t very good in the woods.  Once I got within 50 feet of him, I could him track by the racket he was making.  He didn’t know where to walk and apparently just assumed that small branches would bend out of his way rather than breaking with a sharp cracking sound.  After a few minutes, he got tired of circling and made a right-angle turn toward my original position.  Either he thought I might be stupid enough to stay in place or he had some wild notion that he could track me from there.  I cut across the diagonal to intercept him at the tree line beside my sniper nest.  With the noise he was making, he probably couldn’t have heard me coming if I broke into a sprint, but I walked carefully anyway, although a little faster than he was moving.

A few minutes later, squatting behind some brush behind a tree, I saw him coming through the trees.  It wasn’t Price.  He was in uniform and carrying some kind of machine pistol.  He stopped for a moment and looked around at the rocks, perhaps hoping to find me still lying down watching the prison yard.  He slowly walked past my position, still looking for me.  Suspecting nothing from the rear, he was taken completely by surprise when, as he passed in front of my tree, I put down my rifle, rose up and threw the lock on him from behind.  He was little over six feet tall, outweighed me by a good 30 pounds, so he was too big for me to mess with.  I gave it maximum effort instantly, therefore, and felt certain important items break in certain important places.  I held him like that until there were no more kicks or quivers or spasmodic tremors left in him, and even a little longer.  Too many good men have died - well, they thought they were good - because they were too sensitive, spelled queasy, to make absolutely certain.  There was little noise, just the scuffle of feet, some heavy breathing - mostly mine, since my grip hadn't let him have much air - and a small scraping sound as I dragged him out of sight.

I should have paid more attention to that left ear.  As I straightened up, I felt something hard jab into my spine.  With a bit of admiration, I realized what he had done.  He’d sent his city-bred companion into the woods after me, hoping I’d take the bait, while he’d waited for me to show myself.  Not knowing where I’d end up, he had to have followed me, which spoke well for his woodsman skills.  Of course, with all the noise his partner had been making, he probably could have stayed five feet behind me and I wouldn’t have heard him.

I stood absolutely still, waiting for his next move.  Sticking a gun barrel into a professional’s back is not the brightest idea in the world.  There are a couple of basic moves that can result in the gunman’s immediate disability, not to say death.  With the gun barrel pressed hard against one’s back, a quick turn will move the gun away from the body, leaving the gunman off balance and exposed to instant mayhem.  Since the idea was to get captured, I restrained my natural impulse.  Even so, he must have seen my involuntary muscle-tightening in preparation for the automatic move I had had drummed into my head back in training, as he moved back a step, relieving the pressure on my spine.

“Careful, Eric,” he said.  “It is Eric, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and you’re Price.”

He gave a short laugh.  “Bill Price at your service.  The man you were sent to kill.”

Mac had been right about Price’s suspicions.  That was why he had cancelled his group’s participation in the prison break.  Since I was scheduled to meet up with his group for their help with my escape route after the assignment was completed, he couldn’t take the risk of going through with it.  Thinking his cover was blown anyway, he had apparently decided to do exactly what Mac had hoped – take me alive to salvage something from his efforts.  At least, it appeared that was what he had in mind as, if he had intended to kill me, he could have done so at any time in the last few minutes.  His assumption that I had a secondary mission to kill him hadn’t really been considered by Mac – or me – but from my perspective, it seemed an idea worth encouraging.

“Yeah, I was kind of hoping that was you making all the racket.”

“Fortunately for me, I’m pretty good in the woods.  Helmut – that’s the name of the soldier laying there – wasn’t very good at all, which was why I sent him after you first.  Nice job, by the way.”  He sounded genuinely sincere.  Then he raised his voice a little.  “Hans! Josef!  Hier!”  Well, I’d thought there were at least three of them.  Apparently, there were four … or had been.

“Put your hands behind your head, Eric, and turn around slowly.  Do you have any other weapons, other than that rifle over there?”  He was watching my eyes as he asked.  I could play that game, too.

“Just a small folding knife in my pocket, not much good for anything but paring my fingernails,” I replied, with no hesitation.  After Mac’s training, I could lie with the best of them.  Taped between my shoulders, it was an interesting little rig - a flat little sheath holding a flat little knife with a kind of pear-shaped symmetrical blade and a couple of thin pieces of fiber-board riveted on to form a crude handle.  The point and edges were honed, but not very sharp because you don't make throwing knives of highly tempered steel unless you want them to shatter on impact.  It wouldn't be much of a weapon - a quick man could duck it and a heavy coat would stop it - but it would be right there when someone pointed a gun at you and ordered you to raise your hands or, even better, clasp them at the back of your neck.  Slide a hand down inside the neckline of your shirt or blouse and you were armed again.  And there can be situations when even as little as five inches of not very sharp steel flickering through the air can make all the difference in the world.

I forced my mind away from the knife.  I’ve found that, sometimes, if you think too much about something, someone else starts thinking about it too.  I know, that sounds about as silly as my left ear itching for a warning, but you live your life your way and I’ll live mine my way.  Anyway, I was here to get captured by the guy, not toss a knife into his throat….

The rustling sounds behind Price told me Hans and Josef were on their way.  Price’s grimace told me he heard them as well.  “What can you do with these people brought up in the city?  It’s a wonder they even found us.  Are you a hunter, Eric?  You move like one.”

“I’ve done some hunting in my time, although I’m used to animals that are a little harder to track than your friend Helmut over there.”

He laughed.  “No hard feelings, Eric.  I’d have done the same, although, I must admit, not quite as efficiently.”  He looked at me sharply.  “But then, I didn’t have the specialized training you did.”

He was guessing, trying to put the pieces together.  The problem he had was trying to convince his superiors that Americans could be as ruthless and cold-blooded as the “Master Race.”

When I didn’t reply, he had Josef search me.  Josef was quite thorough and managed to find the knife in my pocket, overlooking the one taped to my back, and not even checking my boots to see if I had a small pistol or a knife tucked down the top of one or both of them.  Price looked at me at raised his eyebrows in an expression that said, “What can you do?” and told Josef to check my boots.

Price jerked his head to the side.  “Let’s get going.  Sooner or later those kids in the prison are going to get the idea that nothing else is going to happen and come out looking for the sniper who shot their Commandant.  Eric, you keep at least 15 feet behind me.”

We headed off through the woods with Price leading the way and Hans and Josef following me off to the side and a little behind so if they had to shoot me, nobody else would be in the line of fire.  They weren’t much in the woods but, otherwise, appeared to be fairly professional.  Eventually we came to a black sedan.  Opening the trunk, Price produced a length of rope and proceeded to tie my hands together in front of me.  He had me get in the back with Josef, and Hans took the passenger seat in front of me.  About an hour later, we parked in front of a small cabin.  Leaving the two soldiers to stand guard, Price motioned me into the cabin, followed me in and shut the door behind us.

It was small, with a kitchen off to one side and a bedroom off to the other.  I could see a small portable propane stove just inside the kitchen, and a wood-burning heater against the long wall of the living room.  Apparently, in anticipation of capturing me alive, the stove had been on and it was comfortable in the cabin.  Price removed his coat, threw it on the short couch and indicated that I should do the same.

“Ok, Eric, it’s time we talked.  Who do you work for?”

I looked at him and laughed.  “For
whom
do you
want
me to work?”

Chapter 27

He flushed and backhanded me across the face.  Getting no answer to his question, he took another swing at me.  The forehand wasn't as bad as the backhand since I didn't get the knuckles or the stones of the rings he was wearing, but I made it look spectacular, flinching away from the blow and letting myself lose my balance and go down.  They always enjoy knocking you down; and when they're beating on you, you want to keep them happy.  If you make them sad, they may actually hurt you.

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.