by Ian Andrew
Leigh turned to walk up the ten steps that led to the marble and glass fronted atrium of the main reception building for the Todt Laboratories. The building was nothing more than a double-storey, medium sized office block, but it sat atop the entrance to the Deep Underground Engineering Laboratory. She was primarily responsible for the most sensitive of the experiments it was now conducting. As she started to ascend the entrance steps Steinmann came close to her ear.
“No Leigh, I didn’t have to read your file. I knew your parents. I miss them too.”
Chapter 5
Thomas’s ears were still ringing from the earlier explosions, but he felt the noise of heavy metal doors being opened and swung back against the sides of the van. He sensed a change of light through the dark material of the hood. He felt hands on his shoulders. As soon as he was dragged clear of the van he was dropped. He hoped for the soft yield of grass again but he hit the concrete floor hard and the wind was knocked out of him. He tried to gasp for breath but the hood sucked into his gaping mouth. Thomas tried to gasp again. He couldn’t get enough air and with his hands and feet still bound he couldn’t stand to help his lungs. He began to panic. His breathing accelerated but he got less oxygen with each frantic attempt. The buzzing in his ears was being drowned out by the pounding of his heart. He twisted and writhed on the ground. He felt like a fish, out of water and desperate for life. Finally he heard insane crying, screaming for him to calm down. Thomas realised it was his own inner voice. He listened. He mustered all his personal control and forced himself to breathe through his nose. His lungs expanded.
As Leigh and Heinrich were walking up the steps to the Todt Laboratory, Thomas Dunhill and his three surviving friends, were being dragged out of an armoured car in the reception processing area of the Franz Six Memorial Centre, Protective Custody Camp, Northwick Park. It was commonly known as the Harrow Holding Centre and was one of five such facilities in the British Isles.
Advertised in all official documents, official Government websites and State Broadcasting channels as being ‘Situated in the north-west London suburb of Harrow it is a 1-kilometre square Protective Custody and Rehabilitation Centre for the re-education of those persons posing a threat to the orderly society enjoyed by the citizenry of the Greater Germanic Reich. Within the confines of the centre the in-mates enjoy University-level education classes to provide those opportunities they may have missed out on in earlier life. Sports and recreation facilities to engender their social and team-building skills. Excellent nutritional and health care to build the bodies that will, on reintroduction into society, contribute to the good of the people. Like all rehabilitation centres throughout the Great Reich, the Franz Six Memorial Centre builds a strong person for a strong nation.’
The reality was somewhat different.
The reception processing area was, counter-intuitively, the central compound within the facility. As the prisoner transport had driven in through the last set of four security gates it entered a 200-metre by 100-metre, unroofed concrete box. Walled by 7-metre high, plain grey concrete unbroken to the two long sides, the south side was only breached by the electrically operated vehicle gates that allowed the transports in. The gates themselves would only open when the outer gates in the surrounding compound had been closed. The North wall of the compound was blank with the exception of a flush-fitted, metal personnel door that led to the administration offices and two aluminium roller doors, almost garage-type, 2-metres wide and 3-metres high set on either side near the corners of the wall. Above each roller door was a large stencil, one marking the left door for Men and the right for Women.
The compound floor was slopped gently, almost imperceptibly, from each wall to six equally spaced central storm drain covers that ensured, even in the foulest of weather, the compound remained flood free. Small sangars mounted on top of the walls at each corner were only accessible by ladders running externally to the compound. Each sangar was manned by one member of the SS-Totenkopfverbände with a MG-42 Mk6 laser sighted machine gun. At 10-metre intervals around the top of the walls were sodium spotlights that turned the darkest of nights into noon. There was no noise save for the laboured breathing of the four hooded bodies lying curled on the ground and the quiet ticking of the armoured car’s engine as it cooled.
The evening paused.
An electronic click broke the still and echoed around the compound. The soft whirring of servos on a drive mechanism accompanied the solid steel door of the administration office swinging open on its motorised hinge. A woman dressed in the black of the SS-Totenkopfverbände(GB) Rehabilitation Service stepped out. In any setting she would have attracted attention. In the compound the effect was startling. She was twenty-five years old, well above average height, with a figure that was classically proportioned. A typically northern European complexion was complimented by long strawberry blond hair secured in a pony tail that reached half way down her back. Her eyes were the ice blue of an Arctic sea and looked older than her years. The rest of her expression was as cold and stark as the concrete walls that enclosed her. She wore her black combat trousers bunched like a paratrooper’s above glistening black boots. Her pristinely pressed black blouse was decorated with the silver oak leaves for meritorious service and the Death’s Head collar insignia. She wore no rank or headdress. The only other addition to her uniform was a Sam-Browne belt and holster in polished black leather that held a Glock-46 pistol, the latest model service-issued pistol. She had wanted to keep her old Glock-17 but had been won over by the weight and feel of the new model. It still took 9mm rounds and held seventeen of them in its magazine.
She was followed out of the door by two, much shorter, male administrators dressed in conservative business suits and carrying A-4 sized electronic tablets. The effect was an Amazonian being followed by mice.
Behind these three came six Waffen-SS riflemen dressed in their standard issue grey-green uniform and with shoulder slung, new model, semi-automatic Karibiners.
The prisoners were still on the concrete, their hands still cuffed with plastic ties and their heads still hooded. Behind them stood SS-Hauptscharführer Carl Schern and three of his men. Carl looked up at the approaching entourage and thought, ‘Fuck me, she’s gorgeous!’ He had never dropped anyone off at Harrow before, but he had heard the stories about the Chief Overseer. He had always thought them just the exaggerations of men making good on a fantasy. In reality the stories had fallen short. He waited until the black-clad Chief was within speaking distance.
“Turner prisoners from the raid on Stanmore. Can we get them signed over so my men and I can be on our way please?”
“Certainly Hauptscharführer, but aren’t you a little short?”
Carl hesitated. He stood 178cm, so he was a bit shorter than her but he was an elite NCO of an elite force, no one took the piss out of him, not even a woman this stunning. As he was still thinking about how to phrase a response she spoke again.
“I was told to expect six of them?”
“Oh, I see, um yes,” he felt foolish but recovered his composure. “Two of them never made the trip, saves you the hassle I suppose,” he smiled as he said it, trying to sound nonchalant and wondering if he was cutting an impressive figure in her eyes.
“Well, that would be an error in your thinking Hauptscharführer. Hassle free would have been six, not hassle free is four, as my men here,” she waved in a dismissive gesture over her shoulder at the two behind her, “now have to redo all the paper work for the incoming and outgoing processing.”
“Sorry.” Carl stumbled over the word. He thought, ‘Sorry? Why am I apologising for this shit. Who the hell does she think she is? Uppity bitch! It’s only a generation since we even allowed women to take on command roles.’ Again his thoughts went unspoken. He glanced at his own men to see if they were smirking but they were as shell shocked as he was at the woman.
She spoke again, “Well, I suppose you could stand them up for me and take their hoods off. Yes? Then you and your me
n can go and wash your faces. Yes?”
Carl’s hand instinctively moved to his jaw. He knew as he felt the familiar texture of the camouflage cream on his face that the look he was presenting to her was not the best. He probably appeared as a clown in green and black makeup.
He nodded to his men and they stepped forward. Carl grabbed the male prisoner who had been wriggling like a fish and lifted him straight up and on to his feet. His men did the same with the other three bodies curled in front of them on the cold ground.
As the blonde dominatrix moved down the line Carl and his men identified who she was looking at as they removed each prisoner’s hood.
“Thomas Dunhill, designated Tango 1, householder of the raid address.”
“Liza Carpelli, designated Tango 2.”
“Amanda Baxter, designated Tango 5, wife of,”
“Terrance Baxter, designated Tango 6.”
The male administrators followed her down the line. Using the electronic pads they entered the data they needed and tagged each of the prisoners with a small data dot. When she got to the end of the line she moved behind the prisoners and looked along to where Carl stood.
“Right, Hauptscharführer, that’s all I need. You may go,” she said dismissively.
Carl had had enough of this shit, so he nodded to his men to mount up and get out of the place. They moved past her to get into the transport. As he walked to her left side she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
Very quietly she said, “Only teasing Carl, I know who you are and you should call me sometime. Now, fuck off and be a discrete boy, yes?”
He felt the business card being pushed into the gap between his thumb and palm. He looked at her but she was looking straight past him. He pocketed the card and never said a word about it on the way back to their Northwood base. His lads did notice that he was in a good mood, but they put it down to the high they were all on after the earlier raid.
As Carl and his team exited the inner compound Chef Oberaufseherin Mary Reid nodded to her two junior administrators.
The older of the two spoke, “Yes, that’s fine Ma’am, we have all we need. Christine Kelly and Ben Stevens are the two that are missing, but we’ll look after that.”
“Okay Harold. Once you and Fredrick have completed the paperwork, lock up the vault and go home.”
“Ma’am,” Harold nodded.
With that the two men went back into the administration office. Mary walked down behind the prisoners, checking their wrist cuffs were still secure. A small smirk crossed her face when she thought of Carl Schern. She had seen his picture in an edition of Signal a few weeks before and been struck by the handsome face looking back at her. He hadn’t been the main feature of the article, obviously. The Wehrmacht were unlikely to make heroes of Waffen-SS Kommandos but, occasionally they would a run a ‘colleagues-in-arms’ story that tried to paper over the quite wide cracks of inter-service rivalry. As per usual Signal had attempted to make a simple story enigmatic and mysterious by alluding to a top secret Kommando unit stationed ‘somewhere in London’. Then it had photographed and named all the members of the team. Rather than helping relations it had no doubt pissed off the Kommando hierarchy and made the average Wehrmacht soldier either envious or dismissive. Bloody idiots working in Wedel Straße couldn’t have produced a decent story if they ran into one. Still, they had given her a very nice image to fantasise over. She knew that if he really was in London then it would be at Northwood and, given his role in life, it was inevitable that sooner or later their paths would cross. She had decided that if or when she did meet him and if he was as impressive in the flesh as in the flash then she would indulge herself. After all, it wasn’t often she fucked for pleasure.
She had recognised him as soon as she walked out into the compound and decided straight away that the photograph had been an injustice. Carl Schern was gorgeous. Carl Schern would be a real pleasure.
As she came back round to the front of the prisoners she stopped opposite Thomas Dunhill.
Thomas had been blinking his eyes since the hood had been removed. As they slowly adjusted to the exceptionally bright spotlights that illuminated the compound he had begun to see details of his surroundings. He’d first watched a tall blonde woman in black uniform and two smaller, suit clad men walk past him. One of the men stuck a small badge onto him. He sensed rather than saw an armoured car moving in his peripheral vision. He looked to his right and saw Liza, tears running down her face, beyond her Amanda, and at the end of the row Terrance. He looked right and left slowly but could not see Christine. As he had lain in the back of the armoured car he had finally figured out what the crystal shape jutting from Christine had been. He had hoped that she would be here but he had known the reality. Now he also realised that Ben was not here either. He looked back at Liza and she turned her head to look at him. His world was silent, save for the incessant ringing in his ears, but he could see Liza’s tears and he could see her mouth, “Ben’s gone.” He simply nodded.
The tall blonde women in the black uniform had come to stand in front of him. She was taller than him and looked down into his face with an expression of complete disinterest. Like she was looking at a specimen in a jar that she knew was once alive but was now just a passing irrelevance. When he looked into her eyes Thomas’s first thought was that he was gazing into a godless soul. But his Turner Creed dismissed the notion. No one, not even an unbeliever, was less than him. This woman was not interested in anything he might know or anything he had to say. But he had a sudden clarity of thought and knew that his beliefs would give him the strength to bear whatever was coming.
Behind her he could see six uniformed guards carrying long rifles slung over their shoulders. The woman turned on her heel and walked away toward them. Thomas nudged Liza’s foot with his and nodded toward Amanda and Terrance. The four friends looked at one another and moved closer so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. Thomas began to speak and although none of the friends had recovered their hearing from the earlier blasts, they knew what he was saying and they added their voices to his.
“Our Father, who guides us, let your name be known.”
Mary Reid stopped in front of her riflemen and turned back to look at the prisoners. She was always amazed that they never ran. They just stood there, meekly accepting their fate. Sometimes they held hands, sometimes they wept, sometimes they prayed and sometimes all three at once. But, they never ran. Not that there was anywhere to run to but she always thought someone would have tried, even if only to live for a second longer.
Before her time in the Service it used to be that they would all be lined up and forced to kneel. Each one of them would be dispatched with a single shot to the back of the head. That had changed when it was found to take too long and caused the ones further down the line to soil themselves from fear or alternatively, faint and fall over. If they fainted it meant that when they were shot the bullet would likely exit the head and embed itself deeply into the concrete.
Neither of these were good outcomes for the efficient bureaucracy that was the SS-Totenkopfverbände. The extra mess and blood needed to be washed away and the concrete had to be fixed. So a time and motion study into the best way to execute millions was carried out. New rules were brought in. Firing squads of twelve were assigned to four prisoners at a time. It speeded things up but not enough. Eventually, it was felt that a single rifleman could be assigned to each target. Numbers of up to thirty would be dealt with in batches of ten or less by a single rifle squad. Any more than thirty and they were processed using the chambers. It was still the way.
“Oberschütze Williams, as you can see we are two short, so choose who is needed. They’re all yours. Carry on.”
“Yes Ma’am. Do you wish to give the order?”
“No. Now we have spares it’s all yours. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
The four friends’ voices carried over the compound, “In heaven and on earth. You are God, yo
u are Allah, you are Yahweh.”
Oberschütze Williams nodded to one of the riflemen to move away. The others unslung their rifles from their shoulders. Each member of the squad checked their magazines were fitted properly and stood with their muzzles pointing down to the ground.
“Guide us today and every day to be your vessel.”
“Squad!”
The squad nestled the butts of their rifles comfortably into their shoulders.
“Be with us and help us to love one another.”
“Make ready!”
They checked the safety catches were on, pulled the weapons into their shoulders, cocked the bolts back and released the cocking handles. The breaches rammed forward as each rifle chambered a round.
“And teach us to love those that care not for us.”
“Aim!”
The firing party leant forward into their weapons and aimed at their targets. A sharp click echoed as the safety catches on the rifles were flicked off.
