Authors: Andrew Mackay
The machine gun burst made Berreud jump. He watched the combat engineer topple sideways with a surprised look of shock on his face.
Robinson appeared beside Berreud. “Come on, Napoleon. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“They’re not here, Lancelot,” Berreud mumbled through his shredded gums. “The King and Queen aren’t here…”
“I know.” Robinson pulled Berreud to his feet. “Come on…”
“Hemphill…my men…they’re all dead…”
“And we will be too unless we get out of here.” Robinson dragged Berreud towards their remaining half-track. Berreud could see his commandos firing the twin MG 42s from the passenger compartment.
“Lewis!” Berreud shouted at the A.P.C. driver. “We’re getting out of here! Drive back to the rendezvous point at Woodend!”
“Yes, sir!” Lewis replied.
The explosion sent Berreud and Robinson flying backwards. They slowly lifted themselves up off their backs onto their knees and looked at their half-track. It was a burning wreck.
“My God!” Robinson exclaimed. “What was that?”
Berreud pointed towards the convoy. An Army armoured car was heading towards them at a rapid pace of knots. He watched as its machine gun barrel belched out a burst of bullets that cut down the surviving commandoes from his A.P.C. Realization suddenly hit Berreud like a thunderbolt between his shoulder blades. The vehicles that he and his men had attacked were not part of the main convoy. The vehicles were the Advance Guard. They were a decoy. He and his men had walked into a trap. The King and Queen were a million miles from here.
“Come on. We’ve got to get out of here.” Berreud tried to shake off his concussion. His head felt as if it had been hit with a giant hammer and he was aware that blood was trickling from his ears. His ears felt as if they had been stuffed with cotton wool. He couldn’t hear properly and he was finding it difficult to focus. Berreud lurched towards the front of the convoy with Robinson staggering unsteadily behind him.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Berreud asked.
“There. Look.” Robinson pointed at a motorcycle combination that had crashed into a ditch. Berreud and Robinson dragged the dead German passengers to the side and manhandled the motorbike onto the road.
“Can you drive this thing?” Robinson asked.
“I can drive anything with a pack of Boche on my tail baying for blood!”
“Blast! Look!” Robinson pointed from his position in the pillion. An armoured car and half-track were charging towards them. Berreud looked to his left and to his right. A thick forest ran parallel to the road, blocking of all potential escape routes.
“What are we going to do?” Robinson asked.
Berreud thought quickly. They could turn around and try to outrun the armoured car. They might well succeed in outrunning the armoured car, but they would not succeed in outrunning its bullets or artillery shells. “Get your head down and pretend that you’re wounded and unconscious.” Berreud slowed down as the Germans rapidly approached.
A head popped out of the turret. “What happened?” The armoured car commander asked.
“Thank God that you’re here, Feldwebel! Partisans disguised as German soldiers have attacked the convoy!” Berreud replied. “I only just managed to escape! They’re hot on my heels in a captured armoured car and half-track. I’m going to brief headquarters on the situation and I’m taking my comrade here” he pointed to Robinson “to hospital. It’s vital that I reach H.Q. I want you and your men to destroy the partisans who are chasing us. ”
The commander saluted. “Yes, sir!”
Berreud returned the salute and sped away.
“You what!” Dahrendorf shouted. “You let them get away?” He said incredulously.
“I …I didn’t know, sir. He told me that you were the partisans,” the armoured car commander answered.
Dahrendorf had seen a motorcycle combination stop and talk to an armoured car and an A.P.C. in the distance. He had not known that the motorcycle combination contained two of the fugitives whom he was searching for. The next thing he knew, the half-track traveling in front of him blew up in a ball of flames. The armoured car traveling behind him instinctively returned fire and destroyed an enemy A.P.C. After much frantic shouting and screeching Dahrendorf managed to arrange a cease fire with the opposing armoured car commander.
“They were partisans, you idiot!” Dahrendorf screamed at the young armoured car commander.
The young feldwebel turned crimson with anger. He had just lost more than a dozen of his men. And they had been killed by fellow Germans. This had not been a good day and it was about to get worse. And now he had been called an idiot by this geriatric fool.
Dahrendorf seemed completely oblivious to this volcano brewing and turned to his second-in-command. “Major Lorenz, where’s the map?” He demanded impatiently. Lorenz handed it over. “Two men on a motorcycle. Where can they go?” His eyes roamed over the map with practiced ease searching for potential hiding places. Where would I hide? He asked himself. “They won’t go towards Hereward. It’s crawling with S.S.” He was thinking aloud. “There can’t be too many places around here that they can hide. Feldwebel?”
“Yes, sir?” The armoured car commander replied.
“I’m placing you under Major Lorenz’s command. Major, I want you to take command of the Rear Guard and carry out an extensive search of the surrounding countryside. I don’t want you to stop until you’ve found them. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Lorenz saluted.
“And Feldwebel?” If you succeed without killing any more of my men I may forget about dragging your sorry carcass before a court martial enquiry.”
“Sir, Stuka Squadron commander,” the radio operator said. “He’s sighted the partisans on a motorbike. What are your orders?”
Dahrendorf thought for a moment.
“Kill them?”
“No.” Dahrendorf waved his finger. “Follow them and find out where they’re going.”
Robinson sat at the radio. “Lancelot calling Arthur, Lancelot calling Arthur. This is Lancelot. Come in Arthur, over.”
“Hallo Lancelot, this is Arthur. Send message, over.”
“Arthur, Holy Grail still at large. Knights dead…Napoleon and myself only survivors, over.” Robinson looked over at Berreud. He lay slumped on his side on a bale of hay. He must have been wounded back at the ambush, Robinson thought.
There was a pregnant pause at the other end as Arthur digested the news of the disaster.
“Lancelot, get yourself to Percy, over.”
“Arthur, message received and understood!”
Ansett jumped as he heard the burst of machine gun fire.
Major Lorenz stepped over the body of the partisan. It would’ve been better if they had been captured alive, but…his men were pumped up and full of adrenalin. Dahrendorf would be disappointed, but it couldn’t be helped.
“They’re both dead, sir.” A soldier nudged the body of the partisan who had been shot as he lay on a bale of hay. His smashed and shattered, smoking radio sat on top of the table in front of him.
Lorenz looked at the walls of the barn. “Get on the
radio and tell Generalmajor von Schnakenberg that Bishop Rathdowne is with the partisans.”
Ansett took off the radio headphones and stood up. He leaned on the table and shook his head. Robinson dead. Berreud dead and all of his commandos. What a bloody disaster. What had gone wrong? He walked with difficulty towards the wardrobe in the corner of the room. There was plenty of time for a post mortem later. If any of them came through this day alive. He selected a uniform. An S.S.sturmbannfuhrer’s. He hurriedly changed into the outfit, wincing when his bandaged fingertips brushed against the material. He buckled on his officer’s belt and he made sure that his Luger pistol was loaded with a full magazine. He jammed as many spare magazines into his ammunition pouch as he possibly could. It looked like he was going to need them. Ansett looked out of the window of his room. He could hear the S.S. military band playing in the center of the Square. He walked down the stairs. He had to warn Rathdowne because the Germans would know now that he was a partisan. They would arrest and torture him and force him to give up the names of the boys. Sam and Alan had risked their lives to save him. Now he would risk his life to save them. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked in the mirror. He brushed a piece of fluff from his tunic, adjusted his peaked officer’s cap to a jaunty angle, opened the door and stepped outside.
“Hallo Wolf one, this is Eagle two. Message, over.” Dahrendorf said as the convoy raced towards Hereward. They were late and he hoped to make up for lost time. They had been forced to wait whilst his men attended to the wounded and cleared the wreckage and bodies from the road.
“Hallo Eagle two, this is Wolf one. Send, over.” Von Schnakenberg replied.
“Wolf one, the partisans are dead, the King and Queen are alive and the convoy is heading towards Hereward. Estimated time of arrival: thirteen hundred hours, over.” Half an hour late. It couldn’t be helped.
“Eagle two, roger so far, over.”
“Wolf one, Bishop Rathdowne is a partisan. Advise arrest immediately, over.”
“Eagle two, say again, over.”
“Wolf one, I say again: Rathdowne is a partisan, over.”
“Eagle STATIC say STATIC…”
“Wolf one, I say again…” but all Dahrendorf could hear was whistles and pops from the other end. “Christ! What’s the use?” He threw the headphones at the radio operator in frustration. If only they were in time, he thought.
Von Schnakenberg smiled to himself. So. Rathdowne was a partisan. That wily old fox. So that was why he had invited him and his men to the New Year’s Eve Party. That was why he offered the use of the Cathedral Hall as a venue for his Welcome Back Dinner. That was why he allowed von Schnakenberg to use the hall to brief his men about the Royal Visit. Rathdowne must have been listening the whole time. That was how he discovered the details of the visit. Von Schnakenberg liked the Bishop and he was glad that he had turned out to be a patriot instead of a traitor. Thank God for the Trojan Horse Plan.
As for the other secrets which Rathdowne had over heard. The Bishop would take them to the grave with him. But first things first. Von Schnakenberg saw an ideal opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Yes. It could work. If he played his cards close to his chest and the gods were smiling.
Chief Inspector Mason was standing on the steps of the Police station tapping his right foot impatiently. The whole parade had been stood down for some inexplicable reason.
He absent-mindedly glanced across the Square. An S.S. officer was weaving in and out of the crowd. He was walking awkwardly. He had a limp. Possibly wounded in recent anti-partisan operations, Mason thought. He was heading towards the podium where Schuster, Rathdowne, the Mayor and the other V.I.P.s were standing. There was something familiar about him…Mason rocked backwards on his heels as if someone had slapped him. Ansett! My God! What was he doing here?
What to do? He couldn’t exactly march over and arrest Ansett in public. He was dressed as an S.S.Sturmbannfuhrer. The Jerries had itchy trigger fingers and they would probably shoot him instead of Ansett. They would think that Mason’s arrest of the S.S. officer was yet another example of British treachery. O perfidious Albion! What to do?
He needed time to think. What was the connection? Hook, Mair, Ansett. But the Resistance worked in four men cells. What was the link? They were all teachers…
Mason swore under his breath as he walked through the corridors of the Police station. Correction. The Resistance worked in four person cells, not necessarily four men cells. Rebecca Templar. Rebecca Templar must have been an ex-teacher at the school, or possibly an ex-student. Who ever she was, she must have been there before his time, because he had never heard of her. She must still live in Hereward.Who would know about her? Perhaps she had left school a long time ago or she could even have left school shortly before he had arrived ten years ago. Who would know? He was the only teacher in the Specials so he couldn’t ask a colleague. Mason walked through the station, chewing the problem over in his head, until he came to the rear courtyard. His men were standing in ranks of three.
“Sir, what’s going on?”
Sam. Sam Roberts. He would know. His three elder brothers had all been at St. John’s, as had their late father before them. Members of the Roberts family had been going to the school since St. John’s had been first established in the sixteenth century. Maybe Sam had heard of her. “Sam,” Mason blurted out, “Rebecca Templar. Ever heard of her?”
Sam grabbed his chest. He suddenly found it difficult to breath. Blood rushed into his brain like a tidal wave.
“Sam. Are you alright?” Mason asked with concern.
Sam shrugged off the hand that Mason had placed on his shoulder as if it was made of red hot metal. “I’m alright,” Sam answered, rubbing his chest. “It’s my chest. This bloody uniform is too tight. I can’t breathe properly.”
“Well, when this is all over, get down to the stores and they’ll give you a new one,” Mason said. He was puzzled by Sam’s strange behaviour.
“Thank you, sir,” Sam said. “I better go, sir.”
“Yes, you’re right, Sam. You’d best be on your way.”
Sam saluted and walked off.
Mason returned the salute. He watched as Sam walked away to join one of the three platoons that made up the Specials Honour Guard. The boy had found his mother and father hanging from the balcony of the Town Hall, for Christ’s sake, Mason said to himself. It was hardly surprising that he was not his usual chirpy, cheery self. Sam was holding up remarkably well, considering.
Schuster noticed Rathdowne walking down the podium stairs. What the hell did the bishop think he was playing at? The convoy would be here any minute. And who was that S.S.sturmbannfuhrer that he was talking to? In fact, Schuster had never seen him before in his life.
“Sir!” Schuster’s Adjutant said. “Convoy’s coming.”