Authors: Andrew Mackay
Chief Superintendent Brown announced the award of the Police Gallantry Medal to the recently promoted Inspector Dickson in recognition of the courage that he showed during the terrorist attack on Police headquarters.
Sam watched out of the corner of his eye. Dickson now. He would be next. But this time it would be King Edward and Queen Wallis who would pin the medal on his chest. That would be his chance. His only chance to make amends.
Alan looked across at his friend. He was worried. Sam had that familiar mad Berserker one-way-ticket-to-Valhalla look in his eyes that he always had just before he did something crazy. Sam had told him about Mason just before they went on parade. Alan had tried to convince Sam that they would deal with him later. But news had already spread like wild fire about the unsuccessful attack on the Royal convoy. The plan to kill the King and Queen had failed. Robinson, Napoleon and the commandos were probably all dead. Alan knew only too well that he and Sam were the Resistance’s only hope.
The explosion ripped Dickson, Brown, Prime Minister Mosley and Major-General Fuller to pieces. Bits of bodies flew through the air and covered the nearest Policemen in a bloody shower.
Sam lay flat on his back and raised his hands to his eyes. He couldn’t open his eyes and for a heart stopping moment he thought that he must have been blinded. But then his fingers pulled away a thick layer of goo, guts and gore from his eyelids and his face and his vision was restored. He raised himself onto his elbows. The scene was one of complete and utter chaos. Policemen, Specials and S.S. troopers were running around like headless chickens whilst their officers flapped in a futile attempt to restore order.
“Save the King! Save the King!” A lone voice was shouting. Not Brown. Brown was dead. He had been too close to Mosley for his own health.
Mason stood next to the King with his revolver drawn. He was panting heavily as if he had just run a race. “Your Majesty, are you alright?” He asked.
“Yes, Chief Inspector.” Edward answered. “I’m fine.” In fact, he was a lot more than fine. He was happy. He was excited. He was exhilarated. He was pumped full of adrenalin. Full of life. He had never felt more alive in his life. He had walked through the Shadow of the Valley of Death and he had survived. Twice. Terrorists had tried to kill him on two occasions and he had survived both attempts. He had beaten them. He was invincible. He was indestructible.
Alan ran at a crouch over to Sam. “Sam, are you alright?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you ready to do it now?”
“Yes. Let’s do it.”
Sam and Alan ran towards the podium with their pistols drawn. Sam shot Mason twice in the chest and he fell backwards with a surprised look of shock on his face.
Rathdowne mounted the stairs, reached under his cassock, drew out a pistol and shot Schuster in the back; the bullets exited through his chest and left bloody gaping holes. Scheimann tried to escape, but Ansett shot him before he had taken two steps.
Alan and Sam wiped out the rest of Schuster’s dazed and confused bodyguard before they had a chance to react. Rathdowne and Ansett took care of Schuster’s regimental commanders and second-in-commands. Edward and Wallis stood aghast as the terrorists disposed of their German hosts.
“Have you…have you come to rescue us?” Wallis asked excitedly.
Edward’s face suddenly drained of all colour. He said nothing. He knew why they had come.
Sam shook his head. He aimed at the King’s chest and pulled the trigger twice. Edward VIII, the Anti-King, the Puppet King, Kaiser Eddie fell to the floor of the podium. Alan fired two shots at the Queen’s chest and she collapsed to the ground beside her husband. The two boys fired the entire contents of the rest of their magazines into the bodies at point blank range to make sure that they were dead and then swiftly replaced their empty magazines with full ones.
“Come on,” Ansett said. “Let’s go.”
“Damn,” Rathdowne said. “The S.S. is sealing off the exits.” There was a mob of men, women and children desperately trying to force their way through the stormtroopers guarding the four main roads leading from the Square. “We need a diversion,” Rathdowne said.
Sam turned and squeezed off a full magazine of rounds at a group of S.S. troopers milling around on the Square. “There’s your diversion,” he said simply.
“Where the hell did those shots come from?” an S.S. scharfuhrer asked as he sheltered behind the corpse of a comrade.
“From over there.” Another stormtrooper taking cover pointed vaguely in Sam’s direction. “The Specials.”
“The Specials?” The scharfuhrer pointed towards the Square.
“Yes.”
The scharfuhrer fired a burst of machine gun bullets at a group of Specials malingering around on the Square. Half a dozen Specials fell to the ground in agony. But the survivors reacted swiftly. They started firing back and several S.S. troopers were hit.
“I love your work,” Alan said admiringly as a Battle Royale erupted in the Square.
“What happened in the Square?” Ansett asked
“Inspector Dickson blew himself up,” Alan answered.
“He must’ve taken some grenades from the Police Armoury. He was the quartermaster,” Sam added.
“His wife and son were killed on Bloody Sunday,” Rathdowne said. “They were two of my parishioners,” he said sadly.
“I didn’t know that,” Ansett said somberly.
“Inspector Dickson tipped Jock off that the Police station was lightly guarded…” Sam said.
“So that we were able to rescue you,” Alan interrupted. “Where are we going now?” He asked.
“Percival’s,” Ansett answered.
Von Schnakenberg stood next to Dahrendorf in the center of the Square. The scene was one of utter death and destruction. Straight out of Dante’s ‘Inferno’, he thought to himself. Specials, policemen and stormtroopers lay in piles and mounds scattered all over the Square. The Police and Specials had presented two platoons of sixty men in total on parade, where as the S.S. had only presented one platoon. The Britons had almost succeeded in wiping out the S.S., but the stormtroopers had been saved by the timely arrival of Dahrendorf’s Convoy Guard who were hastily recalled from their barracks. Following the partisan attack on the convoy Dahrendorf’s men were in no mood to take prisoners. They had killed all the Police and Specials, including those who had begged for mercy. Dahrendorf’s men had also wiped out a renegade S.S. section that was firing at their fellow storm troopers.
“Well, I suppose that we’ll never find out what really happened here,” von Schnakenberg remarked.
“The S.S. says that the Specials started it,” Dahrendorf said.
Von Schnakenberg guffawed. “They would say that though, wouldn’t they? The S.S. doesn’t want to take the blame for starting this.” He spread his arms and slowly twirled around in a circle.
Dahrendorf gazed over the Square and shook his head. “What a bloody disaster…”
“What a bloody S.S. disaster, Kurt,” von Schnakenberg emphasized. “We delivered the King and Queen safe and sound, but the S.S. screwed up and got them killed. Just remember this. None of this will stick to us. We’ll come out of this clean.”
“I hope so.”
So do I, von Schnakenberg said to himself. “By the way,” he said, “what was the message that you tried to give to me on the radio?”
“Ah yes, sir,” Dahrendorf replied. “Bishop Rathdowne is a member of the Resistance.”
“Ben Rathdowne?” Von Schnakenberg exclaimed incredulously. “I don’t believe it,” he chuckled. “In a way, I’m glad,” he continued. “I’m glad that Ben turned out to be a patriot and not a traitor.”
Dahrendorf came to a position of attention. “Your orders, sir?”
“I want the Bishop dead or alive.”
The A.P.C. appeared on the brow of the hill. Rathdowne, Ansett and the boys looked to their left and their right. There were no roads that led off the one that they were walking on for a hundred yards in front of them and behind them. Eight feet walls ran alongside either side of the road. Anyway, Ansett was hardly in a fit state to walk, never mind scale eight feet walls. Alan and Sam reached for their holsters.
Rathdowne put his hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s no use, boys. We can’t fight them.”
The A.P.C. ground to a halt less than a dozen yards from the partisans. They found themselves staring down the barrel of an MG 42 machine gun at point blank range.
S.S. Obersturmfuhrer Stein examined the group. He recognized Bishop Rathdowne from the New Year’s Eve Party. He had not seen the S.S.sturmbannfuhrer or the two young Specials before. “Hands up!” Stein ordered. The men obeyed. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me exactly what’s going on here, gentlemen?”
A figure watched the encounter from a first floor window. Percival had been alerted by the earlier outbreak of shooting in the Square and had prepared for the possible arrival of Ansett and his companions.
“One moment please, Bishop.” Stein held up a finger. He switched to German. “Headquarters, Schultze.”
The radio operator passed Stein the headphones.
Christ, Sam thought. It hasn’t worked. They’re going to kill us. He turned to Alan. He nodded. They both reached for their Lugers.
Stein understood. “Wolf One, message received and understood. Out.”
The machine gun burst shattered the tense silence. The MG 42 gunner was thrown forwards over his weapon. Stein was shot in the back and fell to the deck of the half-track. A grenade sailed through the air and exploded in the A.P.C. sending two Germans flying over the side. Ansett and Rathdowne strode up to the wounded men and each of them fired twice. Sam and Alan ran up to the halftrack and fired through the vision slit at the driver. The whole episode was finished in a few seconds.
Percy appeared outside the house with a Schmeisser still smoking in her hands. Outside the house. Outside Sam’s house.
“Alice?” Sam’s mouth was open wide like a goldfish.
“Yes, Sam. Meet Percy.” Ansett walked up to Alice and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. He enjoyed watching the look of shocked surprise on Sam’s face.
“But I-but I thought that Percy was a man,” Sam said.
“Most men do,” Alice said.
“How long have you been in the Resistance?” Sam asked.
“Since the beginning. Since the War started.”
Sam was speechless. He was completely gob smacked.
“Look. We haven’t got time to waste. Huns will be here any minute.” She rapidly took charge of the situation. “Ben. What size are your shoes?”
“They found Stein and his men, sir,” Oberleutnant Alfonin reported to von Schnakenberg. “Dead in their half track.”
“And Bishop Rathdowne?”
“Dead as well, sir. Together with an S.S.sturmbannfuhrer and two Specials.”
“Did you manage to identify them, Nicky?”
Alfonin shook his head. “Impossible, sir. The A.P.C. was a smoking and smouldering wreck when one of our patrols found it. The bodies of Stein and his men were burnt beyond recognition. It’s difficult to even tell how many men were in the half-track. Rathdowne and the rest were shot in the back of the head at point blank range. The rounds nearly knocked their heads off. Their own mothers weren’t recognize them.”
Von Schnakenberg grimaced at the image that Alfonin’s words conjured. He knew all too well the terrible damage that a bullet could do to a person’s face at a close distance. “Were they executed?”
“It appears that they might well have been, sir.”
“By Stein?”
“Or by the Resistance. God knows the bastards have been busy today, sir.”
Von Schnakenberg nodded. “I guess that we’ll never know.” He shrugged his shoulders with resignation.. “Was it a routine patrol which found them?”
“No, sir. Someone contacted headquarters anonymously.”
“How very public spirited and how convenient.” Von Schnakenberg leant over and picked up a cigar from Brigadefuhreur Schuster’s desk. Neither Schuster nor his brigade were fit for purpose at this precise moment in time and von Schnakenberg saw this as an ideal opportunity to arrange a change of ownership of the Town Hall where he had now established his tactical H.Q. He swung his legs onto the former occupant’s giant oak desk. I could get used to this very easily, he said to himself as he puffed on Schuster’s cigar and helped himself to a glass of Schuster’s Chivas Regal Malt whiskey. He offered Alfonin a seat, a cigar and a glass of whiskey. “Alright then, Nicky. Who’s now in command of the Schuster Brigade?”
Alfonin looked at a list in his hand. “A Sturmbannfuhrer Ulrich, sir.”
Von Schnakenberg spat out his cigar. “A sturmbannfuhrer?” He asked incredulously. “A sturmbannfuhrer is the most senior officer in the brigade?”
“Yes, sir,” Alfonin smiled. “Brigadefuhrer Schuster and all of his senior officers are casualties…”
“And Sturmbannfuhrer Ulrich?” von Schnakenberg interrupted.
“He was not on the podium and survived, sir. Without a scratch.” Alfonin laughed. “In fact, sir, he’s known through out the brigade as ‘The Cat.’”
“Why?”
“Because he has nine lives, sir. He’s survived countless scraps with the partisans.”
Von Schnakenberg was less than impressed. He would have liked to have got rid of the whole bloody lot of them. “Well, inform ‘The Cat’ that as the highest ranking S.S. officer in Hereward he is now the acting commanding officer of the Triple S Brigade effective immediately.” he said dryly.
“Very good, sir.” Alfonin stood up to leave.
“And Nicky. Ask him what he wants us to do with the dead S.S. sturmbannfuhrer.”
“Cause of death, sir?”
Von Schnakenberg shrugged without concern. “The usual reason: partisan attack.”
“Alice…what? How? When?” Sam shook his head. “So many questions…”
“Sam.” Alice put her hand on top of her brother’s. “All in good time. I was recruited a long time ago. Before the Invasion. Before you and Al joined the Home Guard. In fact, before the War began.”