Chapter III- Shooting in the Basement


Dieter Hellstrom let the table fall silent as the barkeep came over and the whiskey was poured; he was steeling himself for the fight he know knew what coming. What fun, Dieter thought with relish. It's been too long since I shot somebody.

Once everyone's glasses were full again- von Hammersmark had received more of her champagne- Hellstrom raised his glass of German beer. "To a thousand-year German Reich!" he said, and he meant every word.

The others echoed him, even that Englander son of a bitch sitting just a foot or two away.

Already the thoughts were racing in Dieter Hellstrom's mind. If the captain was English, he couldn't be in the SS. The others with him were either Englishmen with much more convincing German… or traitors. And that left Bridget von Hammersmark…

Hellstrom took a big gulp of his beer, thanking God there was at least one good drink to be had this far from sacred Germany.

Then, abruptly, Dieter Hellstrom thumped his glass to the table; his right hand flew to his holster. "I must say," Dieter Hellstrom said with a look that held neither good cheer nor humour, "I grow weary of these monkeyshines."

Clack!

Now the pistol was out of its holster, aimed right at the English bastard's grapes.

"Did you hear that?" Hellstrom asked, as if talking to a child. "That was the sound of my Walther. Pointed right at your testicles."

Laughing a little, the 'captain' asked, "And why do you have your Walther pointed at my testicles?"

Hellstrom's face was almost a grimace, now- he was losing patience here. In fact, it was long gone. "Because you've just given yourself away, 'Hauptsturmführer'. You're no more German than that scotch."

Over at the bar, Eric set a hand under the counter. It rested on a double-barrel shotgun.

"Herr Major-" von Hammersmark began as the 'captain' tried to say something, but Hellstrom cut her off. He'd had enough of this traitorous bitch. He snapped, "Shut up, slut," and turned back to the Englishman.

"You were saying?"

The man leaned forward, matching Hellstrom's glare. "I was saying that makes two of us. I've had a gun pointed at your balls ever since you sat down."

A hand clamped roughly on his shoulder, and a pistol was forced down at Hellstrom's crotch. "And that makes three of us," fake-Lieutenant Frankfurt said. "And at this range, I'm a real Friedrich Zoller."

In spite of having two guns aimed at his crotch, Dieter Hellstrom chuckled. "Looks like we have a sticky situation here."

Now the Englishman talked like he was the one in charge. "What's going to happen, Sturmbannführer, is you're going to stand up and walk out that door with us-"

But Hellstrom cut him off. "No, no, no, no, no. I don't think so." Choosing his words carefully, Hellstrom said, "We both know, 'Hauptsturmführer, no matter what happens to anybody else in this room, the two of us aren't going anywhere."

A pause; the Englishman was clearly thinking about it, and Hellstrom was pleased to see that. This was going to be fun, however it happened, but contrary to what his devil-may-care manner might have suggested, Dieter Hellstrom planned on living. He just wasn't afraid of dying.

Hellstrom smirked. "Too bad about Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm and his famous friends. If any of you expect to live, you'll have to shoot them too." With mock sadness, Hellstrom said, "Looks like little Max will grow up an orphan. How sad."

Finally, the Englishman in an SS captain's uniform nodded, as much to himself as to Hellstrom. He leaned back in his chair, taking out a cigarette and flicking open his lighter. "Well, if this is it, old boy," he said in English, "I hope you don't mind if I go out speaking King's."

"By all means, Captain," Hellstrom said, also in perfect English. Unlike the incompetent idiots that were clearly running Allied special forces language schools these days, the SS trained with the very best. Some of their men had even gone to Oxford before the war.

Picking up his glass and glancing at what remained, the Englishman said reflectively, "There's a special rung in hell for those who waste good scotch. And seeing as I may be rapping at the door momentarily…" he lifted the glass, finishing the drink in one gulp. "I must say," he said, "damn good stuff, sir."

Hellstrom's heart was racing now; he could feel the adrenaline coursing through him. It was better than anything else a man could get a rush from. Nothing was so exhilarating as knowing you might not be alive much longer.

"Now," the Englishman with the oily voice was saying, "about this pickle… we find ourselves in. It would appear there's only one thing left for you to do."

Inside, Hellstrom nodded. Just one second more…

"And what would that be?"

"Stiglitz," the Englishman said, and Hellstrom suddenly felt a violent surge of hate. Stiglitz!

"Say 'auf wiedersehen' to your Nazi balls," the traitor said, but Dieter Hellstrom was already moving. Hugo Stiglitz threw his life away the instant he wasted time talking. Men like Dieter Hellstrom knew such moments called only for action.

In one movement so fast most would have had to look twice to even notice it, Hellstrom shot his left arm under Stiglitz's gun arm, snapping it up at the instant he fired. The bullet instead went into the English bastard's shoulder, and as he wildly attempted to reorient his aim against Hellstrom's interference, Stiglitz managed to put his second bullet into Bridget von Hammersmark's leg. Hellstrom's Walther exploded as his right arm, still steady, put a shot into the English bastard's stomach.

The third spy in SS uniform was still able to move and act without Hellstrom's interference, though. So as the SS major swept his chair out from under himself and vaulted backwards towards the German soldiers' table, the third spy shot Hellstrom in the shoulder. The man couldn't tell if the shot was to the chest or to the shoulder, though; for all he could see it could have been a killing shot. Most willing to enhance this impression, Dieter Hellstrom used the white-hot pain that lanced through him to his advantage. Hellstrom cried out as he fell, going down as if killed. Hugo Stiglitz, blind with fury, turned to shoot Hellstrom again anyway- but 'Lieutenant' München's moment of hesitation gave the Gestapo officer all he needed. He rolled out of the way, behind the German soldiers' table. An instant later the entire room exploded.

It seemed in one seconds' time, every single person in the room was on their feet, firing for all they were worth. It was like dueling at ten paces with a pair of MG-42 machine guns. Rolling behind a toppled soldier for cover, Hellstrom raised his pistol and snapped off two shots, killing the stupidest traitor in Germany just as Eric the bartender gave Stiglitz both barrels. What was left of him crashed to the floor as, in a blinding flurry of gunfire, every one of the soldiers in the bar got a few shots off, and nearly all were killed. They reacted with incredible speed for men- and a few women- who moments ago had been calmly drinking, and Hellstrom couldn't help but admire that. Eric went down as he tried to reload his shotgun, killed by a shot to the head. Hellstrom, still lying on the floor, gave him a thoroughly heartless grin of apology. He'd finally remembered why he'd known the bartender's name. The man had been a Gestapo informant since 1940, but after a time even the best Frenchie informer outlived his usefulness.

The roar of gunfire went on for no more than ten seconds, but it killed nearly everyone in the room. Dust and the smoke of spent gunpowder filled the room as silence claimed it again.

Suddenly, as the clatter of footsteps could be heard on the stairs, the one soldier still on his feet, Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm, jerked up his MP-40 submachine gun and emptied the rest of the magazine at the stairs. Instinctively running behind the bar for cover, he yanked out the empty stick magazine and slapped a new one in place, jerking back the charging handle. He fired a few more rounds for effect, and called in English, "You! You up there! What are you- British, American? What?"

Before whoever was on the stairs could answer, Dieter Hellstrom rolled to his feet, firing his Walther at the stairs to forestall any response. "Shut up, Sergeant!" he screamed, then turned his attention to the intruder at the stairs as Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm Kessler stared at him like he was a ghost returned to life.

Snatching up a Stiehlhandgrenate from the pack of one of the dead soldiers, Hellstrom rapped it on the table next to him. "Whoever you are, I've got a grenade in my hands! Get the hell out of here, you French bastards! You can clean this shit up when I've left!"

No response. Hellstrom then repeated himself in French, announcing that in ten seconds he would indeed be throwing the grenade anyway. He grinned; if those were in fact Allied agents come to rescue their dead friends, they probably wouldn't know enough French to understand anyway.

In any case, Hellstrom lied- he threw the grenade before even counting to five. It was a difficult throw, potentially disastrous if you did it wrong. But Dieter Hellstrom had done plenty of shot-put competing in his time with the Hitler Youth; he threw the 'potato masher' just the right way for it to bounce off the stone wall and go shooting up the stairs.

KA-BAM!

Stone, dust, and mortar flew everywhere as the grenade exploded. The wrought-iron railing on the spiral staircase was absolutely destroyed, as were the wooden steps. But while stone was gouged from the walls, they themselves held. Hellstrom smiled a little, even as his ears rang from the explosion. At least these French had managed to get one thing right. It would have been inconvenient if the grenade had collapsed the main way out.

Now Hellstrom was up, his gun aimed at the sergeant, who somewhat understandably looked scared out of his wits. Actually, worse than that. Wilhelm was absolutely terrified, and his fear only worsened when he saw the SS major not only alive but aiming a Walther pistol at him.

"Come on, Sergeant!" Hellstrom said, grinning crazily. "You're going up those stairs!"

"What?!" Wilhelm said, as much out of fear as from impaired hearing.

Hellstrom motioned with his pistol. "Let's go. My Mercedes is outside and I need a driver to get me out of here. I don't feel like getting shot anymore." That part Hellstrom meant, and said without any humour. He'd enjoyed this, but it was time to go. Even if those had been nosy French on the stairs, these Allied morons probably did have friends in town. The village of Nadine was so absolutely meaningless the hamlet didn't even have an Army or SS barracks, and the Frenchman running the constable's would be no help at all at this hour. He'd probably cut his phone line when the two Germans showed up just so they couldn't call for help.

Finally, the sergeant sighed, looking so frightened he wanted to cry. But he advanced on the stairs, his MP-40 raised. Reaching the base of them and looking up, Wilhelm was seized with a grim resolve. If anybody was up there, they'd better be prepared; he was not about to let his son grow up without a father.