MATT HELM: The War Years (6 page)

Mac said dryly, "I take it from your expression, Eric, that Vance did not tell you as I asked him to.  Well, Vance does like his little jokes."  Addressing the rest of the class, he continued, "Although Eric is the first of you to perform as an instructor, I sincerely hope he will not be the last.  In this unit, we will need every resource we can get.  Whenever any of you displays a special talent, if you can teach it to the others, you'll be asked to do so."

Thus expertly smoothing over any ruffled feelings, he continued, "This assignment has taken you out of the mainstream of the war, but it's still a war of sorts and you can consider yourselves still soldiers of a sort, but I'd rather you wouldn't.  Don't make up any pretty mental pictures.  If you were working for a criminal organization, you'd be known as enforcers.  Since you're working for a sovereign nation, you can call yourselves ... well, “removers” is a very good word.  It describes the job with reasonable accuracy."

Mac always did have a knack at getting to the heart of the matter.  We were all instantly sobered, which I would imagine was his intent.  I had always thought of myself as rather cold-blooded, but this guy had me beat in spades.

"You are being given a thorough course of training, courtesy of Uncle Sam.  It's possible that Uncle, being a peaceful sort, wouldn't approve of everything in the curriculum, but what Uncle doesn't know won't hurt him.  Security has its advantages, and we're very top-secret here.  We're supposed to be developing some kind of a mystery weapon, I believe.  Well, one might call it that.  After all, the greatest mystery on earth, and the most dangerous weapon, is man himself.

"During your training here you are going to be taught many skills which, for obvious reasons, cannot be practiced fully - at least if we want you all to survive the course - as it is not practical to provide victims upon which to practice."

I heard a low chuckle somewhere behind me, but I was watching Mac's eyes and could see no hint that he was joking - I got the impression that the cold-blooded bastard would have not hesitated to "provide victims" if he thought he could have gotten away with it.  I'm not criticizing, mind you; it

would
have made our training more effective.

Completely deadpan, he continued, "There is also a certain amount of training that has to do with mental conditioning which cannot be practiced at all.  We simply pound it into your heads and hope it takes.  Each profession has its rules of engagement and code of conduct; however in ours, the penalties for lapses are unusually severe and often fatal.

"Rule one," he held up his index finger.  "The mission takes precedence.  We will not knowingly send you on a suicide mission, but if your success requires your death or the death of another - including your comrades or even innocent bystanders - that is regrettable, but necessary.  We are at war, after all, and our missions will most likely be necessary to save many other lives."  There were several nods around the room.  This was standard military procedure, although I had my doubts about the veracity of his suicide mission comment.

"Rule two. 
You
are not expendable, except when it conflicts with rule one.  We will have a considerable amount of time, effort and money tied up in each one of you.  After your mission is successfully completed, your only concern is to return alive, regardless of the breakage.  If you are captured alive, you will make every attempt to escape.  There is one exception to this rule that brings us to rule three:

"The first thing you are taught in the military is the axiom that you must not tell the enemy anything other than name, rank and serial number, if captured.  In this unit, that nonsense does not apply.  With enough time and effort, anyone can be forced to talk.  If you have potentially dangerous information in your head - a situation we will make every attempt to avoid - you are expected to avoid being taken alive and a means to that end will be provided to each of you."  He paused a moment as we absorbed that idea.

"Other than that, you are free to say anything you wish, to avoid torture that might render you unable to escape.  I hope that's clear to everyone.  Unlike the movies, I have found that a smart, scheming coward generally outlives the brave, courageous hero who laughs in the face of danger and stupidly does or says precisely the wrong thing and gets himself shot.  Not that I'm implying anyone here is a coward; there's just a time to act cowardly and a time to act brave and I hope - for your sakes - that you learn the difference."

I had no particular problem with this philosophy but I could tell from the fidgeting that one or two of the others were having a hard time with it.  Well, what do you expect from a generation brought up on the exploits of Clark Gable and Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper?  Mac seemed determined to hit us with everything at once.  I wondered if everyone would still be here tomorrow.

He wasn't done yet.  "Rule four.  We don't play the hostage game, ever, in all its permutations.  If your target grabs someone as a shield, simply shoot through the two of them.  If your partner is captured and your surrender is demanded, you don't.  Period.  No matter whom is held hostage for your behavior, we … don't ... play ... that ... game.  When in doubt, see rules one and two.  That is not to mean that rescue attempts are not allowed - quite the contrary so long as the mission is not jeopardized."

He didn't bother to pause.  By now he probably figured - correctly - that we were all pretty numb.  "Rule five, and the final rule.  No one dies in vain.  If you're betrayed you are expected to remove the betrayer if at all possible.  If someone feeds you a Mickey Finn or poison and is stupid enough to hang around to see you pass out or die, you will assume that person is not a friend of yours and take appropriate action, preferably fatal.  If you find yourself in a position - quite possible, even likely - where your death is imminent, I expect you to die with your gun empty, your knives used and your grenades expended, and as many dead bodies around you that it is humanly - or inhumanly - possible to accomplish. Any questions?"

He waited for a moment but there were no takers.  "Good.  I'm not one to spend a lot of time discussing philosophy, but I feel quite strongly about this next point.  You've all heard the rumors coming out of Germany and its subjugated countries.  Mass murder, genocide and atrocities of all kinds.  Actually, from what I've learned, the rumors only scratch the surface. 

It's the modern dilemma.  It would be simply marvelous if the human animal weren't aggressive by nature, so a lot of people figure they can stop it from being so just by having everybody pretend it isn't so.  The only trouble is, they won't sit down and calculate what's going to happen if the prescription doesn't work on everybody who takes it.

"What happens is that arrogant thugs start shoving people around, serenely confident that none of their brainwashed, nonviolent fellow-citizens will be willing to, or able to, lift a hand in effective self-defense.  Once you start raising whole generations on the lovely, unrealistic principle that the use of force is always evil and unthinkable, that you should be willing to endure any indignity and pay any price rather than spill a little blood, why, you've set yourself right up for them. For the intimidators.  For the people who haven't the slightest qualms about using force or spilling blood.  For the ones on whom the pretend-we're-all-nice medicine didn't work.  All the bullies and dictators and little-league Caesars.  And a big-league monster named Hitler.

"I doubt that there's ever been a war in history where the good and bad sides have been so clearly defined.  However, regardless of my feelings - or yours - on the subject, you have my word that I will never accept a mission designed to target someone solely because he's a vicious bastard.  It would be too hard to draw the line, and sometimes it's hard to tell.  All of our targets will be determined from a military or security viewpoint - what will further our military objective, save lives or protect vital information - and if the target is otherwise a nice, friendly, warm human being, that's just too bad.  That is the reason this unit was formed and the reason for the rules.

"Just keep in mind that we are serving an important role.  Don't hate the enemy - it clouds your judgment and it is a waste of time and energy.  It is only necessary to kill him."

Chapter 7

The next day we started in earnest.  There were no more secrets, no pretenses.  We were being trained to kill, efficiently and by any means available.  Every other part of the training was a means to an end.  We had to learn how to stay alive, of course, to survive long enough to make the touch - that was the word used in our outfit, why I don't know - and we had to learn how to disengage and make it back home.  Along the way we might have to indulge in some secret-agent stuff, including interrogation, but most of that was handled in the classroom.  In the field, we concentrated on killing.

I was surprised that no one defected.  There wasn't much talking that first day and you could sense the mental wheels spinning, but each of us seemed to have come to terms with the implications of Mac's little speech the night before.  I suppose that was the purpose of the speech.  I never again heard him talk at that length on any non-job-related subject.

Except for special night training, our days were regulated in a typical military fashion, with one major exception.  No more PT - physical training for you non-military types.  I halfway expected to fall out in the morning for jumping jacks, push-ups, mile runs and all the other nonsense designed to make an otherwise healthy human being ache and hurt and wish he'd picked another profession.  Not that we didn't get plenty of exercise, but it was specific exercise, as in hand-to-hand combat, fencing and jumping for cover when a grenade landed too close for comfort.

We also didn't have a lot of nonsense about our personal habits.  If you had a hand free and wanted a cigarette, you just lit up.  There were times I could have used one myself - or my old pipe - but I had given up the habit when it got to be a nuisance around the darkroom.  In that youthful, pre-war period of my life, I'd carried a big 4x5 Speed Graphic camera like a shining sword and worn a press pass in my hat like reporters do in the movies - at least I did until I was laughed out of it by the reporters on the paper.  They'd called me Flashbulb Helm, thanks to an instant christening by Frank McKenna.  He was one of those ageless, pink, chubby, baby-f aced characters who remember everybody they've ever met and are always glad to see them.  I don't know why.  Personally, I've met a lot of people I'd just as soon forget.  Nobody had ever called him Frank.  He'd been universally known as Buddy and had been one of the people who'd laughed me out of my pretentious stage and set me on the path to becoming a reasonably competent journalist.

Anyway, I'd found that you simply couldn't get a clear, crisp print in a darkroom filled with smoke and had gradually quit smoking altogether.  But I still liked a drink occasionally, and was pleased to discover that even hard liquor was available after the evening meal, although consumed in limited quantities - you didn't want to be nursing a hangover when Vance worked you over with his version of  Karate.  Mac, if it was his idea, took care of his people and those who didn't particularly like beer - I was in that category - found their favorite tipple well stocked.  That's what I call a thorough background check.

Most of the field training was designed not just to refine our physical skills, but to teach us the concepts that distinguish the highly competent amateur from the true professional.  For example, we had drilled into us the simple fact that a man aiming a gun at you was a hostile act demanding instant and violent retaliation whenever possible.  A man who aims a gun at you is a man who can kill you, and you don't want to leave people like that standing around.  A gun is a gun and a threat is a threat, and we were trained to react first and do our heavy thinking later.  Like savage dogs, we were taught to go for the throat when threatened.

I remember the way Vance put it.  "A gun is serious business.  Once you point a gun at somebody you're a murderer; whether or not you get around to pulling the trigger is irrelevant.  So you'd damn well better decide if that's what you want before you start waving the piece around.  It's only in the movies that a pistol, or whatever, is a magic wand that bends people peacefully to your will.  The cops have to try it because they're supposed to bring 'em back alive if they can.  We don't.  I don't point guns at people I'm not prepared to kill; and if anybody points a gun at me, I figure he means it, and I think about nothing but killing him until I have him totally dead.  Or he has me; but somehow that hasn't happened yet.  Forget that idiot drop-your-gun-and-put-your-hands-up nonsense.  The moment you aim a gun at somebody, you've moved into the killing zone and you'd better be ready to finish the job and do them in fast before they do you."

As I've indicated, I'd grown up with guns, knowing perfectly well that a firearm is simply a tool for drilling a small round hole in an object, inanimate or animate.  If that's what you want, fine; but don't expect a little .22 or even a roaring, thundering .45 to turn you into some kind of omnipotent deity with absolute control of the world around you.  You might end up dying in a spreading puddle of blood and urine, staring up at your killer reproachfully, wondering why he hadn't got the word that a gun was all it would take to make you a big man giving orders to everybody.  I think that's the reason Mac liked hunters, people like me.  The hardest thing to teach someone who hasn't grown up with guns is not
how
to shoot but
when
to shoot.