Spain.”
The other stormtroopers laughed.
“The Nationalists wouldn’t have stood a chance against the Reds without our help,” the same NCO continued.
“Imagine coming to England without being able to speak German?” another stormtrooper added. “I bet the stupid bastards don’t know how to speak English either. German will
soon become the official language of Spain unless Franco pulls his finger out of his arse and starts doing as the Führer tells him.”
The other NCO s all laughed.
Borghese coughed. “Gentlemen, remember that I told you that I don’t understand German?”
“Yes…” the first stormtrooper replied with a confused look on his face as he realised that the words were German.
“Well, I lied…”
The blood drained from the NCO’s face. “ No…!”
“Viva la Legión! Viva España!”
Borghese and Ramirez whipped their pistols out from under their jackets and fired the entire clip of rounds at virtually point-blank range into the startled Nazis. The Germans collapsed in a
bloody heap on the floor.
“Magazine!” both of the Spaniards shouted in unison to warn their companion that they had run out of rounds. They reached into their pockets to find another fresh magazine.
At that precise moment Scar Face burst through the cubicle door like a battering ram, executed a perfect forward roll and recovered into a crouching position, firing his Luger 9 millimetre
pistol as he manoeuvred. The first two rounds blew off the top of Ramirez’s head, the second two rounds missed, and the third two rounds thudded into Borghese’s stomach.
Scar Face stood up and, still breathing heavily, stood in triumph over Borghese. The Spaniard clutched his stomach as he lay in the foetal position, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood
through his rapidly weakening fingers.
“Scar Face…” Borghese smiled through his gritted teeth.
“Rottenführer Lothar Kophamel of the 4 th SS Infantry Regiment, at your service.” Kophamel bowed.
“I… I wondered what your name was… and now I know,” Borghese said as he coughed up a globule of blood.
“And I don’t know your name.”
“Sergeant Francisco Borghese of the XVII Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión,” he hissed though pain-filled lips.
Kophamel shook his head “You stupid bastard, Borghese. I was onto you as soon as you spoke Spanish. You should have kept your mouth shut.”
“My friends always tell me that I talk too much…” Borghese joked at his own expense.
“And here you lie with your guts falling out and your blood flowing out onto a cold English toilet floor…”
“We all have to die, Kophamel. I would rather die here with my face to the enemy than in my bed, drowning in a sea of my own shit.”
“Spare me the sentimental bullshit, Borghese. Believe me; I’ve heard it all before.” Kophamel shook his head dismissively. “Why did you and Billy the Kid here try to kill
me?” Kophamel asked.
Borghese spat out a globule of blood that landed on Kophamel’s shoe. The Nazi kicked the Spaniard in the stomach as if he was kicking a football, and Borghese moaned in pain.
“It doesn’t matter, Borghese. I already know: Mendoza ordered you to kill me, didn’t he?”
Kophamel saw a flicker of fear in Borghese’s eyes.
“Ah yes, Sergeant. I can see that it’s true. Mendoza did send you to kill me.”
“It’s Major Mendoza to you, you murdering Nazi bastard!”
Borghese suffered another painful kick to the stomach as a reward for his defiance.
Kophamel tutted and shook his head slowly. “You know, it’s a crying shame that you tried to kill me, because when I discovered that Major Mendoza was the Spanish Military
Attaché in Hereward I told Hauptsturmführer von Stein. However, he didn’t want to exact any revenge because he’s a bit of a soft touch. He was all for letting sleeping dogs
lie. But I’m afraid that now you have left me with little choice but to kill Mendoza and his
The other stormtroopers laughed.
“The Nationalists wouldn’t have stood a chance against the Reds without our help,” the same NCO continued.
“Imagine coming to England without being able to speak German?” another stormtrooper added. “I bet the stupid bastards don’t know how to speak English either. German will
soon become the official language of Spain unless Franco pulls his finger out of his arse and starts doing as the Führer tells him.”
The other NCO s all laughed.
Borghese coughed. “Gentlemen, remember that I told you that I don’t understand German?”
“Yes…” the first stormtrooper replied with a confused look on his face as he realised that the words were German.
“Well, I lied…”
The blood drained from the NCO’s face. “ No…!”
“Viva la Legión! Viva España!”
Borghese and Ramirez whipped their pistols out from under their jackets and fired the entire clip of rounds at virtually point-blank range into the startled Nazis. The Germans collapsed in a
bloody heap on the floor.
“Magazine!” both of the Spaniards shouted in unison to warn their companion that they had run out of rounds. They reached into their pockets to find another fresh magazine.
At that precise moment Scar Face burst through the cubicle door like a battering ram, executed a perfect forward roll and recovered into a crouching position, firing his Luger 9 millimetre
pistol as he manoeuvred. The first two rounds blew off the top of Ramirez’s head, the second two rounds missed, and the third two rounds thudded into Borghese’s stomach.
Scar Face stood up and, still breathing heavily, stood in triumph over Borghese. The Spaniard clutched his stomach as he lay in the foetal position, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood
through his rapidly weakening fingers.
“Scar Face…” Borghese smiled through his gritted teeth.
“Rottenführer Lothar Kophamel of the 4 th SS Infantry Regiment, at your service.” Kophamel bowed.
“I… I wondered what your name was… and now I know,” Borghese said as he coughed up a globule of blood.
“And I don’t know your name.”
“Sergeant Francisco Borghese of the XVII Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión,” he hissed though pain-filled lips.
Kophamel shook his head “You stupid bastard, Borghese. I was onto you as soon as you spoke Spanish. You should have kept your mouth shut.”
“My friends always tell me that I talk too much…” Borghese joked at his own expense.
“And here you lie with your guts falling out and your blood flowing out onto a cold English toilet floor…”
“We all have to die, Kophamel. I would rather die here with my face to the enemy than in my bed, drowning in a sea of my own shit.”
“Spare me the sentimental bullshit, Borghese. Believe me; I’ve heard it all before.” Kophamel shook his head dismissively. “Why did you and Billy the Kid here try to kill
me?” Kophamel asked.
Borghese spat out a globule of blood that landed on Kophamel’s shoe. The Nazi kicked the Spaniard in the stomach as if he was kicking a football, and Borghese moaned in pain.
“It doesn’t matter, Borghese. I already know: Mendoza ordered you to kill me, didn’t he?”
Kophamel saw a flicker of fear in Borghese’s eyes.
“Ah yes, Sergeant. I can see that it’s true. Mendoza did send you to kill me.”
“It’s Major Mendoza to you, you murdering Nazi bastard!”
Borghese suffered another painful kick to the stomach as a reward for his defiance.
Kophamel tutted and shook his head slowly. “You know, it’s a crying shame that you tried to kill me, because when I discovered that Major Mendoza was the Spanish Military
Attaché in Hereward I told Hauptsturmführer von Stein. However, he didn’t want to exact any revenge because he’s a bit of a soft touch. He was all for letting sleeping dogs
lie. But I’m afraid that now you have left me with little choice but to kill Mendoza and his
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