Authors: Andrew Mackay
“The only terrorists we have in Hereward have swastikas on their helmets!” Sam interjected.
“You would be wise to hold your tongue, Sam. My comrades in the S.S. are not as tolerant as I am,” Ulrich warned.
“My life is no more in danger from so called ‘terrorists’ than any father whose daughter is sleeping with the enemy.”
Ulrich winced. He knew fine well that his actions and Alice’s actions placed not only their own lives, but also the lives of their friends and families in danger. He ignored Robert’s remark. “Your threat assessment does not change my orders. I am to take you to Gestapo Headquarters.”
“‘Gestapo headquarters?’ You Nazi bastards!” Sam swore.
“I’m warning you, Mr. Roberts, control your son, or I’ll deliver two Roberts to the Gestapo instead of one!” Ulrich threatened.
“Sam! Please!” Roberts said. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, you are not. You will be released when the terrorists have been captured or have surrendered.”
“Now, sir?” Mueller asked.
“Not now, Mueller!” Ulrich barked.
“I’m touched by your concern for my safety, Norbert, but I’m perfectly safe and I’m capable of looking after myself and my family,” Roberts kept up the charade.
“Look, Mr. Roberts, I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue with you. My orders are to take you into protective custody and deliver you to Gestapo Headquarters, with or without your cooperation. What will it be?”
“Without!” Sam slammed the door shut trapping Ulrich’s fingers which were resting on the door chain.
“Now, Mueller! Now!” Ulrich screamed in agony.
Mueller swung the sledgehammer over his head in a huge arc and the door splintered as if it was made of plywood. Two soldiers armed with Schmeissers burst through the shattered remnants of the door, flicking off their safety catches and resting their forefingers alongside their trigger guards as they did so.
“Take him alive.” Ulrich ordered through clenched teeth. He was kneeling on the floor supporting his wounded hand with his other arm.
One of the S.S. troopers stepped up to Sam and thrust the barrel of his Schmeisser into Sam’s stomach. Sam groaned as he doubled over. As he bent over, the same soldier kneed Sam viciously in the face. Sam straightened up again. The other German swung his Schmeisser in a wide horizontal arc and the butt caught Sam square on the chin. Sam spun around and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor. Michelle Roberts rushed over to her son. The first S.S. trooper came over and kicked Sam’s mother in the stomach.
Alice screamed.
Ulrich’s hand whipped up and he pointed his Luger pistol in the soldier’s face. “That’s enough, Brandt! Get Roberts and let’s go!”
But Alex Roberts remained rooted to the spot. He was shell shocked by the ferocity of the punishment meted out to his son and wife.
“Gott in Himmel!” Brandt cursed, reversed his Schmeisser and hit Roberts right between the eyes with the butt of his machine gun
Roberts fell to the ground.
Ulrich groaned. “Alive, Brandt!”
“Don’t worry, Obersturmfuhrer,” Brandt answered. “He’ll wake up tomorrow with nothing worse than a nasty hangover.”
Ulrich looked at his watch. 3.15 a.m. Time to leave. “Alright, men. Let’s go.”
“What about him, sir?” Brandt pointed at Sam lying unconscious on the ground.
“Leave him. We’ll come back for him if we need to.”
“But, sir…!”
“Brandt!” Ulrich grunted through pain gritted teeth. “Do as you’re bloody well told!”
Brandt grinded his teeth with frustration. “Pick him up,” he ordered.
Three soldiers picked up Alex Roberts and dragged him out through the splintered door with his feet carving a path through the shattered pieces of wood.
Another soldier tried to help Ulrich to stand up, but Ulrich reacted as if he had been touched by a leper. “I’m not a cripple!” He barked sharply. Ulrich recovered his composure and said more gently, “it’s alright, Mueller. I can get up by myself. Thank you.” Ulrich bowed his head slightly in gratitude as he apologized for his harsh words.
Mueller stood back to give Ulrich space to stand up. Ulrich faced Alice who was kneeling on the floor beside her unconscious brother and her distraught mother. “If Sam had let us in none of this would’ve happened.”
“You’ve obviously forgotten that an Englishman’s home is his castle,” Alice replied defiantly.
Ulrich clicked his heels and bowed in the traditional Prussian gesture of respect. “I’ll see what I can do for your father, Alice.” Ulrich turned around and walked out of the house. His soldiers followed him.
The last storm trooper covered Alice with his Schmeisser and backed out slowly. At the door he paused and said “The Obersturmfuhrer may be willing to forgive and forget,” gesturing at Sam, “but I’m not. The S.S. has a long memory.”
Alice was rooted to the spot with shock. The soldier had spoken clear, fluent English.
Alan studied his reflection in the shop window as he walked along the High Street. He was dressed completely in black from his peaked cap bearing a silver badge showing a crown above the letters “S.C.” through his tightly fitted wool tunic to his jodhpurs and his laced up knee high riding boots. On his right arm he wore a bright blue armband with a white circle. In the centre of the circle were the capital letters “S.C.” Special Constabulary, written in scarlet. He wore a highly polished black Sam Browne belt that held his holstered Wembly Revolver, ammunition, handcuffs and foot long truncheon. The uniform made Alan feel like a Greek God. The uniform was black and silver and sexy. It made a man look and feel like a medieval knight dressed in a suit of armour. Black armour. Dark and foreboding. Invincible and invulnerable.
Alan walked along the High Street with a regular Police Officer, Sergeant Hitch.
“Where are we going, Sergeant Hitch?” Alan asked as they walked down High Street.
“Call me ‘Hitchy,’Alan.” Hitch smiled good-naturedly. “Everyone does.”
“Alright, Hitchy,” Alan said self consciously. It felt strange calling an adult by his nickname.
“Each patrol has a certain designated beat to cover. We have to organize the beat areas very carefully or else some patrols will overlap and cover the same area, whilst some areas would not get covered at all.”
“Oh, I see. And what happens if a patrol gets into trouble?”
“We use this.”
“I am hardly brimming with confidence, Hitchy,” Alan said sarcastically as he looked at the whistle which Hitch was holding.
Hitch chuckled. “I know exactly how you feel, lad. But with the increased number of patrols around it shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes for another patrol to arrive.”
“But ten minutes is a long time in politics. It’s even longer in a gunfight,” Alan said grimly.
“I know.” Hitch nodded his head. “But we have to make do with what we have.”
“The old ‘Dunkirk spirit,’ eh?’”
“Yes. Fat lot of good it did us,” Hitch muttered to himself. His words dripped with bitterness. He looked at Alan to see if he had heard him. He had. Hitch had not mumbled quietly enough. Hitch looked away as if he had been caught eavesdropping. He lowered his eyes and looked at his shoes. He couldn’t look Alan in the face. He couldn’t bear to be thought of as a defeatist. He listened to the B.B.C. broadcasts from the Free North. He heard Churchill and the King telling them not to give up hope, promising them that the Occupied South would soon be liberated. Hitch tried to be a good patriot. He wanted to believe in final victory. But it was hard. Damn hard. With jackboots goose-stepping across the Town Square and a giant swastika flying from the flag pole above the Town Hall.
Alan walked over to Hitch. “Our time will come.” He put his hand on Hitch’s shoulder and squeezed.
Hitch nodded his head. Wanting to believe that Alan’s prophecy would bear fruit.
They continued walking down High Street.
“What was that?” Alan asked, cocking his head like a Spaniel.
“What was what?” Hitch asked. “I didn’t hear anything.”
“Well, I did. I’m going to check it out. I’ll be back in a tick.” Alan took off like a bat out of hell up a side street.
“Alan! Where the hell are you going? Come back here!” Hitch’s shouting shattered the silence of the curfew.
“I’ll come back!” Alan’s voice echoed down the street.
“Mitchell, you disobedient bastard! Come back here! That’s an order! I’ll have you court-martialed!”
But by this time Alan had long since disappeared into the darkness. Hitch cursed his name to high heaven, shrugged his shoulders and started quick marching up the street.
Alan ran up Brighton Street until he was sure that he had left Hitch behind. He stopped running and started to walk quickly allowing himself time to recover and catch his breath. After quick marching for a few minutes he slowed down until he was barely walking. He reached into his back pocket and took out a pair of tights. Silk tights were like gold dust in the Occupied South, but Alan had managed to trade them with a primary school boy for a small treasure chest worth of German Army and S.S. badges. The boy had stolen the tights from his mum’s lingerie drawer. At least Alice’s Christmas presents had been put to good use, Alan smiled to himself.
Alan pulled the tights over his head to conceal his face. He opened his holster and withdrew his revolver which he cocked. He flicked off the safety catch and waited in the shadows provided by a giant oak tree. This was a tree that he always used to wait beside. He waited a few minutes until he heard footsteps approaching. But from which direction were they coming? Alan edged further back into the shadows. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the tree, thank God. The footsteps had come from Fitzroy Street.
“Sam?” The voice whispered. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” Alan replied.
“I’ve got my stuff. Have you got yours?” The figure stepped out from behind the tree. Dressed completely in black from head to toe. Black woolen hat, black shoe polished face, black overalls and black gym shoes. Black S.S. officer’s webbing belt with holster and revolver. No doubt taken from a dead Nazi. The holster still buttoned up. Big mistake, Alan thought to himself. The figure carried a jerry can in one hand and a length of hose in the other.
“Yes.” Alan applied first pressure to the revolver trigger. “Where’s everyone else tonight?” Alan stayed on his side of the tree and used one hand to muffle his voice.
“Everyone else?” The figure repeated. “I don’t know what Danny’s up to. What’s the matter with your voice?” He asked with furrowed brow.
Alan’s heart missed a beat. “I’ve got a cold.” He tried to keep conversation to a minimum.
“Danny’s probably with Pete.”
Peter Miller, Alan thought to himself. One of Danny Edward’s friends.
“You were the one who said that it would be better if we didn’t know what the other two were doing and visa versa. Better for security, you said. Why the sudden interest?” The boy in black asked suspiciously.
‘The other two,’ Alan thought. Sam and this bloke, Danny and Pete. Four in total that meant that the other arsonists were copy cats.
Alan stepped out of the shadows.
The figure spotted the Specials uniform. “What the-?”
The two bullets hit the boy in the chest. “I’m sorry,” Alan said. “I truly am.” You are a sacrificial lamb. Your corpse, your body, your life. Your death will free the hostages. You will free Alex Roberts, the father of my best friend. You will not have died in vain.
Alan knelt beside the corpse and unbuttoned the dead boy’s holster. He withdrew the revolver and flicked off the safety catch. He stood up and pointed the weapon at the all too familiar oak tree. He took careful aim and fired two rounds at the tree in quick succession. The bullets embedded themselves in the thick bark.
“Mitchell! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The voice coming out of the darkness made Alan jump out of his skin.
“Hitchy?” Alan pointed his revolver down the street.
“Of course it’s me! Who else could it be at this time of night? And stop waving that thing about. You might shoot someone!” Hitch stepped out of the shadows.
“Thank God it’s you.” Alan breathed a genuine sigh of relief. “I thought that you were one of his friends.” He pointed at the corpse with his weapon.
“Who is it?” Hitch asked as he walked over.
“I don’t know.” Alan holstered his own revolver and quickly placed the dead boy’s weapon in the corpse’s hand. He pulled off the woolen mask and turned on his flashlight. Short dark hair. Alan used the hat to wipe some of the shoe polish from the dead boy’s face. He sighed and stood up. “Davie Jones.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, he’s in my class at school.”
“I knew his father well. We fought together in the Fusiliers in the last war and we both joined the Force at the same time after the War.”
“Christ. What a waste.” Alan shook his head.
“Yes. Nick will be turning in his unmarked grave. I guess that Davie just wanted revenge. His dad died of lung cancer shortly after Davie was born. He contracted the disease as a result of suffering a gas attack during the last war.”
They both stood in silence.
“Did he say anything before he died?” Hitch asked.
“No.” Alan lied. “He must’ve realized that he’d made a noise. He heard me coming and opened fire as I reached him. Fortunately, his aim was as poor as his judgment and he missed. Look.” Alan walked over to the oak tree and pointed at the bullet entry points.
“I see.” Hitch examined the entry points. “You can still see the bullets stuck in the tree.” He shined his torch on the tree. “And then you fired back?”
“Yes. Two shots.”
“And both shots hit him in the chest?” Hitch looked at the still warm corpse of his friend’s son. “Good shooting, Alan.”
“Beginners’ luck.” Alan shrugged modestly.
“Luck has got nothing to do with it. You fought at Wake and Fairfax. Jones is not the first person that you’ve killed.”
“Davie Jones was British. He was a person. The others were just Huns. This is different,” Alan said with a heavy heart through gritted teeth.