Chapter IV- Combat & Survival


Wilhelm sprang up the shattered stairs, boots pounding on the churned-up stone. In moments, he reached the tavern's entrance and vaulted through the door- what door?- throwing himself flat on the cobblestone sidewalk outside. Rapidly scanning the street to his left and right, Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm determined he was safe… for the moment. He sighed a little in relief. At least there wasn't a squad of British paratroops outside. That would have just meant going from bad to worse.

Even so, Wilhelm wondered about his choice of thoughts as the Gestapo major sprang out the door, sweeping the street with his pistol. He must have determined they were safe, too, because he turned his attention to his car; Hellstrom swore violently when he saw the tavern's front door, blown off its hinges, had actually been thrown the handful of feet between the entrance to the tavern and the Mercedes.

"Shit," Hellstrom spat, as much from the pain in his shoulder as from the fact that the Benz now had some rather unpleasant dents… plus both passenger windows shattered. Very nice, Hellstrom noted. God help whoever ends up having to pay for this.

"Herr Sturmbannführer, please," the sergeant was begging, "Just let me go. I-I didn't do any of this! All of the shooting, the killing- it's not my fault!"

"Shut up." Hellstrom said, his voice cold and flat. "Get your ass in that car." Taking the silver keys from his pocket, Hellstrom threw them to the Army sergeant. The young noncom's face lost what colour it had left; even the idea of so much as touching one of those sleek black cars frightened him. He'd heard more than enough about the men who drove them, the men in the dark coats. Wilhelm was already so scared he could barely think- now he was being ordered to drive this Gestapo man… where? To Wilhelm's own execution, simply for knowing too much?

But the SS officer was there over him now, grabbing Wilhelm and grimacing in furious pain as he hauled the sergeant to his feet. Wilhelm bent down and scrambled to pick up the keys. Left with no other choice, he hurried to unlock the car and throw the heavy wood door clear of the dented black sedan. Then he sprinted around to the passenger side- Wilhelm could have sworn he felt a thousand eyes upon him besides the SS major's, not one of them friendly- and threw open the driver's door. Dieter Hellstrom got in beside him just as he started the engine.

When Wilhelm started to ask what he was supposed to do, or where to go, Hellstrom grabbed the MP-40 Wilhelm had left on the seat and aimed it at the sergeant's temple. "Move, you idiot! If those morons had friends, they'll be here any second; we've got to go get our own! Get this fucking car moving now!"

Wilhelm uttered a terrified squeak when he tromped the gas pedal and forgot to put the car in gear; a growling Hellstrom poked the MP-40 at his temple. Then Wilhelm got the Benz into first gear, and this time when its powerful engine roared in response to the gas pedal being flattened to the floor of the car, it took off down the road, soon vanishing into the night.

For a few minutes, they just drove; the Gestapo officer was clutching his shoulder now, cursing and almost forgetting to aim his pistol at the Army sergeant. The adrenaline now having faded, his shoulder hurt like hell and was bleeding more than Hellstrom cared for. There wasn't a hospital he trusted anywhere between here and Paris.

"Where are you garrisoned, Sergeant?" The question wasn't said in a way that left much time for an answer.

"Paris," Wilhelm almost sobbed. When the hell was this going to end? What had he done? "I'm stationed in Paris! My unit, we were being transferred up to fight at the Normandy front! We were going to head north in just a few days, and today I got the news my son was born!"

Then the gun was at his temple again. As they passed a clearing, some empty farmer's field, Hellstrom said, "Stop the car, Sergeant. Now."

The Mercedes swung off the road so fast it smashed through the wooden fence. The heavy steel fenders and chrome bumper took the blow, however, so the blackout-covered headlights remained intact. Wilhelm was thankful for that; he didn't want to imagine what would happen if he furthered the damage to the Gestapo officer's car. It might well mean a fate worse than what could be in store for him already.

The moment the sergeant had the car stopped, now resting in a French farmer's cow pasture, Hellstrom told him to turn off the engine, and get out of the car. Oh, God, Wilhelm thought, feeling so overcome with despair he started to weep. This is it.

"Get your hands over your head," the young Gestapo officer said, his voice flat and commanding. Wilhelm did as he was told, and was marched a few feet into the field away from the sleek black car. "Knees- get down on your knees." Hellstrom said, and Wilhelm did that too. He waited for the end, determined to face it as bravely as he could manage.

The major's voice; cold, unamused. "Sergeant, you'd better stop crying or I really am going to kill you."

Wilhelm stopped.

"Do you love your son?"

Surprised, Wilhelm started to turn around; he stopped abruptly when the Walther pistol was jammed into the back of his head. "Look forward!"

The question, again: "Do you love your son?"

"H-he was born today! I was already going to fight at the front, and now this-"

"I won't ask again, Sergeant."

Wilhelm Kessler nodded; for some reason he felt a little calmer. Maybe the Gestapo officer really did want to know… though it would probably make no difference in the end. He answered with one word: "Yes."

"Are you normally friendly when you drink, Sergeant?"

"Y-yes," Wilhelm said haltingly. He still had no idea where this was going. "It gets me thrown out or beat up in some places, because I keep trying to be nice to everybody. Not everybody's nice when they drink."

The Gestapo officer then said very quietly, no menace at all in his voice, "Yes. I know."

Then something happened that Wilhelm Kessler wasn't expecting. Dieter Hellstrom told him to stand up, turn around. Once he did so, Wilhelm grew very still again when he saw the Walther was still aimed at him. The SS major's eyes held a strange look, though; was he debating what he was ultimately going to do?

As a matter of fact, Hellstrom was. He was going back and forth in his head- shoot the man for having seen too much, or let him go. Why, though? Well, if nothing else the sergeant had seen plenty but knew nothing. He had no idea why the shootout had occurred, none at all. The Gestapo would hardly blame Hellstrom if he shot the young sergeant, but would they much care if Hellstrom let him go? The man knew no critical information, no state secrets, and his quick actions had quite possibly saved Dieter Hellstrom's life in the tavern. He had assisted the dispatch of no less than three Allied spies, and while Hellstrom had no idea if Bridget von Hammersmark was still alive or not, the Gestapo would soon be told she was an Allied spy herself. Wilhelm Kessler had made all that possible, in his own way.

And there was something else. An odd feeling was occurring to Dieter Hellstrom, something he could not place.

This man didn't seem like the type… to do what Dieter's father had. Even when drinking, he just got friendly, and sensible men never drank to excess at home regardless. "Would you ever strike your wife?" the SS officer asked, his voice giving nothing away.

The Army sergeant shook his head, still wondering what the hell was happening. But at least his chances looked a tiny bit better… just a tiny bit. "Never," he said. "I'm a soldier, but I could never hit Ilse, and I know I couldn't do it to Max, either. I hate fighting; I just do it because the Allies bomb Frankfurt. They're bombing all of Germany, all day and night." The sergeant's voice took on some force, giving a hint of the courage that had led him to earn his Iron Cross, 1st Class on the Eastern Front last year. "How could I not fight against men who want to kill my family?"

The major considered this; finally he looked at the sergeant, tilting his head a little. "Those men inside the tavern- they were with the French Resistance. Some of their better operatives. You know that?"

Wilhelm stared at Hellstrom in the dark; obviously not.

Hellstrom suddenly cracked a smile, one totally without his trademark sadism or menace.

"I think we need to get you another Iron Cross, Sergeant," Hellstrom said. "For special services to the Reich."

But the Army sergeant's distressed face said he didn't like the idea at all. "Please," he said, "no. No medals. I'm already going to have to explain what happened to my friends-"

"We'll take care of that," Hellstrom said, without any shortage of confidence.

"Please," Wilhelm said again. "I just want to forget about this. My unit is going to the front tomorrow, and I want to get home and see my son."

A pause. Finally, standing there with his Walther aimed at the young sergeant in the dark, Dieter Hellstrom transfixed him with a stare, one that very much made the two men resemble a snake and a bird. "If you have lied to me, Sergeant, I have every legal right to shoot you now." Hellstrom considered. "If you have told me the truth, I have every legal right to shoot you now." The Sturmbannführer paused again. "We both know my Walther is loaded. I could shoot you in this field and no one would ever know. This is true, yes?"

Wilhelm shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the summer night's air. "Yes," he said, feeling his knees go watery. Was this ever going to end?

Then the SS major flipped his Walther around, flicking the safety on again and returning it to the leather holster at his waist. "I'm not going to." He walked back to the car, motioning to Wilhelm and wincing as the pain once again returned to his arm. He'd somehow managed to ignore it for the past minute or two.

When Oberfeldwebel Wilhelm Kessler just stood there on the grass, staring back at the black Mercedes he'd put through the fence, the SS major grinned again, his almost unnatural good cheer returning again. It seemed to come and go whenever the young officer wanted it to.

"Come along, now, Sergeant," he said, waving with his right arm- not his left- at the car. "We have another fifteen kilometers back to Paris. The Army needs a good sergeant, and the Gestapo will need my report."

Finally Wilhelm decided he was serious; he slowly walked back to the black car, its chrome grille shining in the moonlight. It was a beautiful car, yet the men who so often drove them were the scariest, meanest bastards in Germany. As Wilhelm got back in and started the engine, backing the Mercedes onto the road and setting off at as fast a pace as he dared, Wilhelm wondered what the hell he'd manage to do right. He was being allowed to live after seeing a whole bar full of people shot all to hell. He was driving the car of a man who, by simple virtue of who he worked for, could kill with impunity. The major said little for the rest of the drive; in fact, other than giving some basic directions for turns, he said nothing at all. With the adrenaline having quite fully worn off now, the wound in his shoulder was plenty sufficient to occupy his attention.

Finally, though, when they neared Paris' outskirts, the Sturmbannführer motioned for Wilhelm to stop. Wilhelm knew this area of the city's outer regions; he could likely walk back to his barracks from here. Hellstrom got out and walked around to the driver's side; he held open the door, smiling politely as he held out a hand in invitation. Wilhelm sighed wearily, reached for his MP-40 and stood up, out of the car.

By the time he turned around, the black-uniformed SS major was already sitting down; with a clunk he swung the Benz's heavy door shut, looking up at the Army sergeant. "I think the French Resistance decided to hit that bar tonight, Sergeant. I think you acted very bravely during the raid, and the compliments of the Geheimestaatspolizei should be passed on to your commander." The Sturmbannführer paused. "Don't you think so?"

Wilhelm Kessler nodded. "Yes, Herr Sturmbannführer," he said. He was willing to agree with damn near anything the SS officer said, as long as it meant getting back to his barracks alive. What irony it would be, Wilhelm thought, if this Gestapo man lets me go and I got killed in Normandy three days from now. What irony, indeed.

But maybe that wouldn't happen. Hopefully, it wouldn't. In final dismissal, Dieter Hellstrom- who had never told Wilhelm his name- pressed a 100-Reichsmark note into his Wilhelm's hand and said, "Give my regards to Max, Sergeant." Then the Mercedes was moving away, accelerating down the road and off towards a hospital German doctors currently oversaw. The sleek black car's taillights winked red as it swung around a corner, and then it was gone.

Wilhelm Kessler stood alone on the dirt road, just at the outmost regions of the city of Paris. He didn't know what time it was, and he didn't care.

What the hell did I do right today, to be spared by a nut from the Gestapo? Wilhelm wondered. Why did he ask me those questions?

Then, after just a moment of thinking about it, Wilhelm Kessler decided he didn't want to know. There were some things it wasn't best to ask too much about, and being let go by the Gestapo was one of them. Muttering a silent prayer of thanks that he'd run into the one Gestapo officer who wasn't all bad, Wilhelm started his walk back to the barracks. His men would need him for the big push into Normandy, and little Max would need his father to stay focused, to be smart and come home from the war alive. Wilhelm sighed, hefting the MP-40 in his arms. It was hard to believe the move north would start tomorrow. The war waits for no man, Wilhelm thought as he walked through the night. And neither does the Fatherland. Or Max.

That last thought brought a smile to Wilhelm Kessler's face, and suddenly he realised he really didn't care why that Gestapo major had done what he did. Wilhelm knew he was lucky to be alive. He'd been given a second chance, and to Wilhelm it could only be one thing. It had to be the work of God, silently directing him to survive the war and make it home to his son. He'd been given a great opportunity; Wilhelm swore he wouldn't waste it.