Young Lions (19 page)

“Sir,” the dispatch rider said. “My instructions were that the Army major was also to read the orders.”

The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer let the letter fall from his fingers. The paper fluttered gently to the ground and landed before the dispatch rider could catch it. The messenger swore. He picked up the paper and handed it to the Army major.

The shot made the Army major drop the paper. He was covered in a shower of skull fragments, brain tissue and globules of blood. He followed the sound of the gunfire. The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer was lying on the ground. The top of his skull was missing. His Luger lay in the lifeless fingers of his right hand. He had stuck his pistol in his mouth and blown his head off.

The man was debriefed at Glencourse Barracks in
Edinburgh the day after he had arrived in Scotland. He described the battles that he had fought with pride. He described his capture with shame and he described the massacre of his men with anger. He talked of his escape. Of how the men with whom he had traveling had been killed. The weeks that he spent hiding during the day, walking during the night, trekking across the countryside, scavenging for scraps of food from rubbish bins. Avoiding villages, towns and cities. Not seeing anyone for days. Not speaking to anyone for weeks. Trusting no one. Endangering no one. Packs of wild dogs loose in the countryside. Deserted and derelict villages. The bombed and burnt out towns and cities. The English people defeated and depressed. The Germans victorious and triumphant.

But he would not give up. He had walked steadily northwards up the length of England. He had swum across the River Tweed and had nearly drowned in the process. He had reached Berwick-Upon-Tweed, the city that had been built to guard the border. But now the border not only separated Scotland from England, it also separated the Free North from the Occupied South.

Edinburgh was security conscious to the point of paranoia. Everyone who claimed to have ‘escaped’ from the Occupied South to the Free North was vetted and verified. If their identity could be proven then all was well and good and suitable employment would be found for them. However, the escapees were placed on probation. The Germans and their British puppets could still have a hold on them and they could be working under duress. For example, they could be holding their family as hostages. Edinburgh wanted to be sure that they were loyal and true. If they were not then it was a short hop, skip and jump to the gallows and the hangman’s noose, or, if they were lucky, internment in a Detention Camp in the Highlands for the duration.

The man sat on a stiff backed chair drumming his fingers on the table in front of him. He was nervous and he was apprehensive. He had given the Debriefing Officer a list of names of people who could vouch for him and prove his identity. But what were the chances that any of them were in Scotland? He tensed in his chair as he heard the echo of two sets of footsteps marching down the long corridor. There was a knock at the door and an armed guard marched into the room, halted and saluted. “Identifying witness to see you, sir,” he said.

The ‘identifying witness’ entered the room. His face broke out into a smile as he strode towards the escapee with an outstretched hand. “Dickey, old boy,” he said with concern, “you’re as thin as a rake. What on earth have they been feeding you?”

“Sauerkraut and black bread,” the escapee replied. He grabbed the outstretched hand and gave the witness a giant bear hug. The gates opened and rivers of tears of relief ran down his cheeks. He shook as he cried his heart out. The tension and stress of the past year drained out of his body like water draining out of a bath. At last. After weeks on the run. After months of captivity. He was safe. Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Hook, Commanding Officer, Third Battalion, The Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers had arrived home.

Ansett shook his head. “You should have checked the dead better…”

“Oh no…” Sam’s hand covered his mouth.

“Oh yes…two of the Germans survived.”

The colour drained from Alan’s face. Sam turned as white as a sheet.

“My God,” Sam croaked, “What are we going to do?”

“Can the Jerries identify us?” Alan asked.

“You signed your names on Jock’s report, didn’t you?” Ansett asked.

“The Germans know who we are…” Sam groaned. “That’s it. We’re buggered. Game’s up. Show’s over. We might as well pack our bags right now. Put a bullet through our heads and save the Jerries the trouble.”

“Not necessarily,” Ansett said. “Panic ye not.”

Please, Mr. Ansett. Give us a glimmer of hope. Alan looked down in his hands. His fingers were interlaced in the position of prayer.

“You told me that you found a massacre when you arrived. Correct?” Ansett asked.

The boys nodded. “That’s right. The Jerries had already massacred the other mob. They were all lying together in a heap. That’s when we killed the Huns. The Police arrived soon after.” Sam stood up straighter. Maybe there was a chance of getting away with this.

“But in your report you stated that there was full scale fight going on when you arrived?”

Alan and Sam nodded.

“If the Germans want to cover up the massacre of the prisoners then they might decide that it’s in their best interests not to dispute their story,” Ansett said.

“Why would they do that?” Sam asked.

“The Jerries have just set up the Specials. How would it sound if it came out that a joint Specials/ Police patrol wiped out an S.S. section? After all, they’re all supposed to be on the same side,” Ansett answered.

“It would be a major embarrassment for Schuster,” Alan said. “He set it up.”

“He would be forced to disband it and he would probably be demoted, if not sent back to Germany in disgrace,” Sam added.

“My money is that Schuster will cover up this disaster,” Ansett said.

“He might decide to support our statement rather than dispute it,” Alan said.

“Exactly,” Ansett said. “After all, you and Jock are the only ‘reliable’ witnesses. The Jerry survivors are wounded. The Huns can’t afford another scandal like the slaughter in the Square yesterday.”

“Any idea about casualties yet, sir?” Alan asked.

“The Germans are saying that less than one hundred civilians were killed and wounded. But we reckon that it’s nearer to a thousand,” Ansett answered. “We were lucky to escape with our lives.”

“My father’s alive,” Sam announced. “The S.S. dropped him off at our house this morning.”

“Thank God.” Alan walked over and squeezed Sam’s shoulder.

“The Nazis said that shots were fired from the crowd at the soldiers,” Ansett said.

“What a crock of shit!” Sam exclaimed.

“We know that and they know that, Sam,” Ansett said. “This is purely a face saving gesture. They’re playing the blame game.”

“The cynical bastards.” Alan swore.

“Talking of bastards,” Ansett said “Although the rational course of action for the S.S. who survived your private Guy Fawkes party would be to support your statement,” the boys chuckled, “I think that it would be wise for you two boys to be prepared to flee at a moment’s notice. Do you agree?”

“Absolutely,” Alan answered for both of them.

“Do you have a place where you can hide?” Ansett asked.

“We have places to hide and places to go,” Sam answered.

“What about Jock?” Alan asked.

“You take care of yourselves. I’ll take care of Jock.” One way or another, Ansett said to himself.

Chapter Fifteen
 

Colonel Hook spent the rest of the day catching up on news and gossip with his ‘identity witness,’ Brigadier John Daylesford. Before the invasion, Daylesford had been the Commanding Officer of the First Battalion The Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers. He had managed to escape from Dunkirk to Dover and he had been promoted from Lieutenant-Colonel to his present rank. Daylesford and Hook had served together in the First World War and had remained firm friends ever since.

“I take it that you haven’t heard about what happened in Hereward yesterday?”

“No. I’ve been stuck in here all day. What’s happened?” The hair on the back of Hook’s neck stood on end. “My wife is still in Hereward. I haven’t seen Jackie since I marched out on the day of the invasion.”

“The Germans had threatened to execute twenty hostages unless certain ‘terrorists’ surrendered by one o’clock yesterday.” Daylesford paused. “A crowd gathered in the Town Square, the hostages were brought forward to be executed and then the Jerries opened fire on the crowd…”

“My God!” Hook’s hand went to his mouth in horror.

“We don’t know why the Huns opened fire yet,” Daylesford continued.

“Casualties?”

“We don’t know. Hundreds. Possibly thousands.”

“Sweet Jesus…” What about Jackie? Was she safe?

“We don’t have a list of casualties, Dickey.”

Hook nodded slowly as if in a daze.

“I’ll let you know when we do.” Daylesford squeezed Hook’s shoulder. “I’m sure that Jackie’s alright.”

Hook smiled weakly. ‘Alright,’ but not safe. Not with Nazis roaming the streets at random.

“The Jerries then freed the hostages.”

“Any idea why?”

“None what so ever.”

“How bizarre.” Hook thought for a minute. “A change of heart, perhaps?”

“Rather like shutting the barn door after the horse has bolted.”

“Who ordered the execution of the hostages?” Hook asked.

“I’ll give you three guesses.”

“Schuster?”

“Yes. The Prince of Darkness himself.”

“The bastard.” Hook ground his teeth. “I knew it would be him. He was the swine who ordered the massacre of my men at Fairfax.”

“I know, Dickey. The question is: what are we going to do about it?”

“What do you mean?” Hook sat up straighter in his chair.

“There will be spontaneous uprisings all over the country.”

“Where?”

“London, Coventry, Leeds, Manchester, Liverpool…”

“All over?”

“Yes.”

“But how will the people find out?”

“About ‘Bloody Wednesday?’ Because we’ll bloody well tell them, Dickey. ‘We’ being S.O.E. Special Operations Executive, the organization that I work for.”

“And you’re sure that these ‘spontaneous uprisings’ will take place?”

Daylesford nodded. “We already have people in place.”

“Johnny, I asked you this question once before: do you have any jobs for me?”

“I was wondering when you would ask.” Daylesford smiled and stretched out his hand. “Welcome aboard. Welcome to S.O.E.”

“Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn? Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn? Can you hear me?”

Zorn heard his name being called. He tried to open his eyes, but it was like trying to see through thick fog. He couldn’t hear very well either. All sounds were muffled. It was as if cotton wool was stuffed into both of his ears. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain stabbed across the back of his eyes from one temple to the other.

“It’s the concussion,” the voice said. “Lie back down on your pillow.”

Zorn groaned and did as he was told.

“You have a visitor. It’s Schuster,” the voice whispered.

Zorn recognized the voice. Ulrich.

“Listen Hauptsturmfuhrer,” Ulrich said. “He’ll want to know what happened on Tuesday night…”

“What day is it?” Zorn interrupted.

“It’s Friday,” Ulrich answered impatiently. “Listen Hauptsturmfuhrer. You must back up my story or we’ll be court martialled and …”

“Obersturmfuhrer Ulrich! Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn! The two luckiest men in the Brigade!” The voice thundered through the room.

“Too late…” Ulrich whispered. He stood awkwardly at attention and clicked his heels together. He couldn’t salute because his right arm was still in a sling.

“At ease, Ulrich. Take a seat, my wounded soldier.” Schuster pulled up a chair for his subordinate and sat down on another one himself. Ulrich sat down. “How are you, Zorn?” Schuster asked.

“Not very well, sir. My head feels as if someone has been using it as a punch bag and my mouth feels like a badger’s bottom.”

“I’m not surprised!” Schuster laughed. “The doctors say that you’re lucky to be alive.”

“How’s that, sir?” Zorn asked.

“Look at this.” Schuster clicked his fingers. A member of his bodyguard standing behind him handed Schuster a helmet. Schuster placed the helmet on his knee. “Recognize the helmet, Zorn?”

Zorn shook his head.

“You should do-it’s yours.”

Zorn looked at the front of the helmet. There was a hole. “What happened?” He asked.

“The doctors say that a bullet entered the front of your helmet, rattled and ricocheted around the inside and then must have fallen out. The bullet first hit one of your men in the face, passed through his skull and then penetrated your helmet. Luckily for you, the bullet had lost most of its force by then.”

Yes, Zorn thought morbidly; flesh, blood and bone had a tendency to slow bullets down. “Obviously, that bullet didn’t have my name on it.”

“No, it didn’t. But it did have Brandt’s,” Ulrich said somberly.

“There but for the grace of God go I,” Zorn said. “About what happened, sir…” Zorn decided to preempt Schuster’s question.

“Yes, Zorn. I was just about to come to that. Before I hear your version of events, perhaps you’d like to hear Obersturmfuhrer Ulrich’s?” Schuster asked rhetorically.

Ulrich began: “On Tuesday night, I accompanied Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn on patrol in a last ditch effort to capture the terrorists responsible for the arson attacks…” He looked at Schuster.

“Go on…” Schuster prompted.

“At approximately 3 a.m. we came across a group of men acting suspiciously and we ordered them to halt. They opened fire on us and then…my world went black. I don’t remember anything.”