A TBO Homage: "On the Hunting of Men..."

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

"Papers !" came the familiar cry. Then, "Oh, sorry, Fraulein Smitt ! Didn't recognise you !"

"New coat, Franz," I allowed. "Summer-weight, from the street market, but I mended the frayed hems, stitched in a new lining."

"You may pass."

"No, no," I stated. "You must, must search me, my shopping, everything."

"Huh ?"

"Else the Partisans will make me carry messages-- Or a bomb ?"

Thus un-nerved, the pair missed the slits to the coat's new, 'security' pouches. If noticed, I'd say that thieves kept trying to pick-pocket me. Which was sufficiently true. And, warily examining all Herr Administrator's routine shopping cost them valuable time, time their team could have spent hunting a few streets away. Word spread so fast, even my minute or two meant their element of surprise was now long lost.

Eventually, their boss, a familiar face at Herr Administrator's excellent table, came over to query the delay. "What is taking-- Oh ! Fraulein Smitt ! But--"

"Your Agents must search me, and thoroughly, lest Partisans use me as a 'mule'."

"Ah ! Yes ! Of course ! Carry on !!" The possibility that even a humble turnip could conceal an 'Infernal Device' clearly unsettled. After exchanging nods, the two Agents re-started their slow search of the groceries. Yes, today's sweep was a 'bust'...

The long delay between French surrender and the UK's submission meant Gestapo tactics had been studied, considered. One thing was clear: Agents had no sense of humour. Worse, small-talk was routinely mis-understood. Any remark could be taken as criticism or, worse, insult. Engaging Agents in polite conversation, as I'd just done, was usually the equivalent of waltzing into a mine-field. A beating was the least punishment for any slip of the tongue...

Of course, the Gestapo knew that Englanders had been warned of this hazard, would expect us to remain mono-syllabic, tongue-tied with terror, until sudden hysterics. My strict courtesy, my formal 'Viennese' German, my careful logic disarmed them. But, as the inimitable Winston said, 'When you have to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite.'

When they were not doing 'random' block-cordon searches, the local Gestapo tried the same overt and covert tactics that worked so well in France.

A pair would stomp into a shop, push past other customers, show their credentials, demand to know what the previous shopper had bought. Cue silent hilarity as they tried to decipher a smudged butcher's list scrawled on a now-crumpled scrap of brown paper.

In 'plain clothes', having learned that single Agents were 'accident prone', they'd work in pairs as 'Front Man' and 'Back-Stop'. They'd follow some-one, any-one who caught their interest, or simply at random. The 'Front Man' was meant to be noticed. Should their 'target' or startled by-stander attempt to elude or evade, the 'Back-Stop' would take up the chase, the former 'Front Man' now following.

Of course, this assumed that potential suspects worked alone. Killing Agents brought bad luck and trouble, but a 'Back-Stop' who neglected to 'Watch His Six' could wake minus weapon, wallet, watch and shoes.

An initially effective tactic in France was for a slightly tipsy 'Former Soldier' to stagger into a bar, order drinks, begin humming or singing scraps of now-forbidden patriotic songs. Meanwhile, from shadowed corner, his previously parked 'Watcher', perusing a news-sheet while nursing a long drink, would note the results.

Englanders did not succumb thus. Often, other drinkers would loudly 'Take Pity' on the 'Old Soldier', club their pennies together then, despite his protests, ply him with weak beer or, better, 'Young Cider'. Such Scrumpy is disconcertingly powerful stuff, even if not discreetly dosed with herbal laxative or emetic, never mind a 'Mickey Finn'...

Should the 'Old Soldier' performance shade unto unruly, perhaps by trying to refuse the endless drinks, the Desk Sargant at the local civil Police station would be called. A pair of weary Constables would arrive, haul away the miscreant for being 'Drunk and Disorderly'. Or, if the Scrumpy had sufficiently worked its magic, 'Drunk and Incapable'. A long night to sober in the cells ensued. Plus, yes, Scrumpy being congener-rich, a near-legendary hang-over. Of course, the 'Agent Provocateur' carried fake papers. Nor could his thwarted 'Watcher' intervene.

Such a 'Watcher', now operating alone, was vulnerable. It was so easy to slip into a wet drain's few inches of mud, develop hypothermia, pneumonia. Or stand at the mill-stream's edge to pass water and, fly open, fall in. Or simply vanish. By the time a pit of manure had rotted down, there'd be scant evidence...

[jemhouston]

Educational material.

[Nik_SpeakerToCats]

I thought I'd exhausted this 'seam', but a couple of further stories surfaced, begged to be told...

One's almost done, the other is 'WIP'.

Perhaps *then* I can get back to 'Fresno'...

[jemhouston]

Don't overdo it.