Young Lions

by Andrew Mackay

  “I will protest through the appropriate channels.”

  “Would those ‘appropriate channels’ include running crying to your daddy, the General?” Schuster asked. Schuster’s words were dripping with sarcasm.

  Von Schnakenberg took an involuntary step backwards. He felt as if he had been physically punched in the stomach. He found it difficult to breathe. Schuster smiled with satisfaction that his finely chosen words had hit a raw nerve.

  “Why you-” von Schnakenberg started before Lindau clamped a hand over his superior’s mouth

  “That’s right, von Schnakenberg. It would be wise to think before you open that insubordinate mouth of yours. If you give me any more trouble I’ll have you up in front of a court martial so quick that it will make your head spin. Get out of my sight and take your lap dog with you. Dismissed!”

  Von Schnakenberg stood there with steam virtually coming out of his ears. It took a supreme effort of will to control his emotions. He wanted to jump across Schuster’s desk and rip his throat out. Instead he clicked his heels, saluted, about turned and marched out of Schuster’s office. Lindau did likewise.

  Von Schnakenberg walked quickly down the stairs slapping his leather gloves in his hands, swearing to himself under his breath. Lindau hurried after him, struggling to keep up. Von Schnakenberg’s face was scarlet with barely concealed rage. They left the Town Hall and entered the Square.

  “We’ll get him, sir.” Lindau tried to reassure von Schnakenberg but he was painfully aware of how lame and inadequate his words sounded. “Don’t you worry, sir.”

  “I’ve no doubt that we will, Freddy, but how?”

  “Ah, Generalmajor Wurth,” von Schnakenberg said suddenly, squeezing Lindau’s arm as Wurth walked up behind him. “What a pleasant surprise to see you.” Von Schnakenberg and Lindau both saluted.

  “Good afternoon, Oberstleutnant, Major Lindau.” Wurth returned the salute and shook their hands. “Just been in to see Brigadefuhrer Schuster?”

  “Yes, sir.” Von Schnakenberg was embarrassed to think that Wurth might know of his humiliating treatment at the hands of Schuster. Bad news traveled fast.

  “I trust that you found the Brigadefuhrer as charming as ever?” Wurth smiled before his face darkened grimly. “I heard about that business with Zorn through the grapevine. Goering and Himmler are not exactly the best of friends, Oberstleutnant and the Field Marshall has eyes and ears in all sorts of places. Including the S.S.”

  “I see.”

  “Care for a spot of sight seeing, gentlemen?” Wurth walked away without waiting for an answer. He knew that von Schnakenberg and Lindau would follow. “There’s a lot here that I want to show you. And tell you.”

  They followed Wurth down a street leading from the Square. Two of Wurth’s paratroopers walked a few paces ahead and two of von Schnakenberg’s Grenadiers walked a few paces behind forming a bodyguard. They were out of hearing but not out of sight, keeping potential enemies as well as potential eavesdroppers at a distance.

  “I also know about the massacre at Fairfax,” Wurth whispered. Von Schnakenberg and Lindau both stopped walking. They were thrown off balance by the shock of Wurth’s revelation.

  “How did you find out?” Von Schnakenberg asked, wide eyed with surprise.

  “What is important is not ‘how’ I know, but ‘what’ I know,” Wurth answered. “I have been expressly ordered by Field Marshall Goering to produce a full and comprehensive report on the massacres at Fairfax.”

  “Why?” Lindau asked.

  “On a need to know basis, Major, you don’t need to know, but since we’re all Grenadiers, I will elaborate. Follow me.”

  The men walked for five minutes up the High Street until they came to the sandstone pillars and iron gate of St. John’s Academy. The gates were open. Wurth led the way through. It was a Saturday and the school was deserted. They walked along the main path entering a beautiful cobblestone encrusted courtyard. Classrooms looked down upon the courtyard and crossed over an enclosed bridge that led over the River Ouse.

  “What a lot of people don’t know was that Queen Elizabeth built the school on the site of a Norman motte and bailey castle.” Wurth pointed at the river. “The Ouse forms part of the motte.What do you think about the keep, Oberstleutnant?” Wurth asked.

  “It’s magnificent,” von Schnakenberg answered.

  “Go on,” Wurth encouraged.

  “A magnificent piece of engineering,” von Schnakenberg continued. “Built on top of an artificial mound of earth constructed by slave labour made up of the local English peasantry. Superb view of the surrounding countryside and all round fields of fire. Effectively protected by the moat on three sides.”

  “Anything else?” Wurth prompted.

  Lindau thought for a moment. “No, sir. Am I missing something?” He turned around to face Wurth.

  “Look at the Coat of Arms above the main entrance. What do you notice?”

  “An eagle on a shield. An eagle with outstretched wings on a shield. An Imperial eagle.”

  “Yes. An eagle just like the one on the flag.” Wurth pointed at the swastika fluttering from the flagpole on top of the castle keep. Von Schnakenberg noticed that Wurth had said ‘the flag’ and not ‘our flag.’ Was Wurth subconsciously indicating what his attitude was towards the Nazis? Or maybe it was not a subconscious indication. Maybe it was deliberate.

  Something was ticking in the back of von Schnakenberg’s head. He felt as if he could hear a clock ticking, but he could not tell the time. He was missing something here. Something obvious.

  Wurth’s words interrupted von Schnakenberg’s thoughts. “Baron John St. John came over with the Duke in 1066 and fought at the battle of Hastings. He helped to capture the town of Ely from the Saxon patriot Hereward the Wake in 1069. King William gave him all of this land as far as the eye can see as a reward.” Wurth spread his arms wide and slowly turned around in a circle.

  The ticking was growing louder in von Schnakenberg’s head.

  “It seems that St. John was not without a sense of humour,” Wurth continued, “he built a town on his land and he named it after his nemesis, Hereward.” Wurth turned to look at von Schnakenberg. “Oberstleutnant, what is the symbol of St. John?”

  “The eagle.”

  “And what is the symbol of the Reich?”

  “The eagle,” Lindau answered with a confused expression on his face. Where exactly was this conversation going?

  “Why have we captured Hereward?” Wurth asked.

  “Because it is of vital strategic importance,” Von Schnakenberg repeated the holy mantra.

  “No, my dear Oberstleutnant. Follow me.” Wurth opened the heavy oak door of the keep and slowly climbed up the narrow winding staircase all the way to the roof. He opened a trapdoor at the top of the stairs and clambered through. He walked over to the eastern side and peered over the battlements. Von Schnakenberg and Lindau followed him.

  Wurth put his hand on von Schnakenberg’s shoulder. “Look, Christian.” He pointed with an outstretched arm. A stonewall completely surrounded the keep. The keep was four stories high and the wall came up to the bottom of the fourth level. On top of the wall on the eastern side was a massive stone statue of an eagle with giant outstretched wings.

  “Who do you think lived on the fourth floor?” Wurth asked.

  “John St. John.”

  “Yes. The good Baron himself.”

  “What do you think he would see every morning?”

  “The sun rising up and making a silhouette of the eagle.”

  “Yes. Casting a huge shadow onto the ground of his land as the sun rose. How do you think that he would feel seeing the eagle, his personal symbol, casting a giant shadow on his land every morning?”

  Von Schnakenberg’s mind traveled back through time an
d he imagined himself in the Baron’s place, standing beside the battlements of his keep. His voice when he spoke was barely a whisper. “Powerfull, omnipotent, all conquering.” The ticking was getting louder. How would anyone feel seeing their personal symbol casting a shadow on their land every morning?

  Alarm bells were ringing in von Schnakenberg’s head. “The Fuhrer…”

  “Yes, the Fuhrer.” Wurth nodded his head in confirmation.

  “The Fuhrer’s headquarters will be in Hereward.” Lindau spoke the words with hushed tones as if merely saying the words would summon the devil himself.

  Von Schnakenberg seemed stunned into silence

  “Not the Fuhrer’s headquarters, but his Official Residence. He will stay here when he is in England and he will wake up every morning to see his eagle cast its shadow over his land just as St. John did nearly a thousand yeas ago.”

  Von Schnakenberg came out of his trance. “Hereward was never of strategic importance?” A wave of nausea swept through his body

  “No,” Wurth confirmed, “but we had to capture it intact incase the British tried to destroy this specific tower.”

  Von Schnakenberg slumped against the battlements. All the strength seemed to have left his legs. The destruction of half of the King’s Lynn invasion fleet. The ambush of the motorcycle battalion at Wake. The slaughter of his Grenadiers at Fairfax. Willy’s death. The massacre of the civilians and prisoners-of-war at Fairfax. All for nothing. All so that Hitler could have a glorified holiday home which he might use once or twice a year if he was lucky. Bought and paid for with German blood and the blood of innocents. And Willy’s blood. Was this what he had joined the Army for?

  Von Schnakenberg violently vomited up his morning breakfast over the side of the battlements.

  Sam and Alan both reached their respective homes in the mid afternoon. Sam arrived at the door of his family home to be greeted by his mum. Surprise, joy, relief. Michelle Roberts’ tears and kisses expressed all of these emotions at her son’s appearance. Sam’s dad, Alex Roberts, and elder sister, Alice, soon joined them in a group hug. Where have you been? We thought you were dead! What have you been doing? Alan twisted his ankle when they marched out of Hereward. Sam stayed behind to look after him. They tried to catch up with the battalion but there were too many refugees. They had been trying to get back to Hereward ever since. Sam had to endure a barrage of questions during a late lunch, which he wolfed down like a hungry animal. After lunch he excused himself, climbed the stairs to his bedroom and collapsed onto his bed fully clothed. He was asleep before his head touched the pillow.

  Alan arrived at the front door of “Cromwell” Boarding house to be met by his Headmaster, Peter Ansett. Alan repeated much the same story to Ansett who listened without interrupting until the end of Alan’s story. Seven Cromwell Fourth Year students had marched out with the Fusiliers but Alan was the only one that had returned. Ansett informed Alan that as the only surviving Fourth Year student, he was the new House Captain, effective immediately. He was the only senior student left and Ansett would have to depend on his help to hold the Cromwell boys together in the dark and difficult days to come.

  Both boys returned to St. John’s Academy the following Monday. The school was like a ghost town. Alan and Sam were two of the few boys who were older than fourteen years old. The senior boys and senior girls’ classes were amalgamated because there were so few boys left. There were also fewer staff. Many of the male teachers had volunteered for the Forces or had been conscripted at the beginning of the war. Some of the remainder had been officers in the RRiFFs and just like the Fourth Year Cromwell boys they too were missing, presumed killed. The boys were pleasantly surprised to find that they were not the only survivors of the massacre at Fairfax. Their Company Commander, Captain Peter Mason, had also miraculously survived. He seemed to have resumed his prior existence as a French and German teacher. The boys were rather put out that Mason had not enthusiastically greeted them with open arms as old comrades-in-arms. However, the boys soon discovered that Mason’s reaction to their unexpected reappearance was by no means unique. In fact, it seemed to be the rule rather than the exception.

  People would stop talking when the boys entered the room and they would resume speaking when they left. When teachers spoke to them they seemed to take extra care choosing which words to use as if English was not their native language. As if they were not only foreigners from a different country but aliens from a different planet. Teachers never told them what to do and they certainly did not order them around. They took extra care to phrase their request as gentle suggestions. They treated the boys with kid gloves. Or perhaps with boxing gloves. They didn’t treat the boys like kittens. Rather they treated the boys like tiger cubs. Tiger cubs that had killed and tasted blood. They had to be handled carefully because although you can take a tiger out of the wild, you can’t always take the wild out of a tiger.

  Sam and Alan were given the same response as Lazarus received when he was raised from the dead. They were treated like heroes one minute and they were treated like lepers the next. The boys were neither accepted nor rejected by their peers and teachers. They were frustrated by this bewildering mix of praise and persecution and they wished that people would simply make up their minds as to whether they wanted to treat them as friends or enemies. The boys endured this bizarre behaviour until the October Mid-Term holiday when they were given a welcome break from their period of purgatory.

  Alan’s parents lived in Hong Kong where his father was a superintendent in the Police Force. He had not heard from either of them since the invasion began. Alan usually stayed with his father’s relatives during the school holidays but he had no idea if they had survived the fighting. Sam had kindly invited Alan to stay with him and his family during the holiday. Alan was happy to accept. In fact, he was overjoyed. The truth of the matter was that he had little choice. All of his friends, save Sam, were dead.

  Alan was busy packing his bag in his bedroom when Ansett knocked and entered.

  “How are you, Alan?” Ansett asked.

  “I’m fine, sir,” Alan answered. “And yourself, sir? Are you looking forward to the holidays?”

  Ansett smiled good naturedly. “I certainly am, although I don’t know how much of a ‘holiday’ I’m going to have, looking after all of the waifs and strays.” Several of the boys had lost contact with their parents and relatives and had nowhere to stay during the holiday.Ansett had taken on the role of surrogate father without hesitation. He considered it an honour and a privilege to look after and care for the boys whom he regarded as members of his extended family. “You’re ready to leave for Sam’s?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any word from your parents?”

  “No, sir. Not since the invasion.” Alan leaned against his desk.

  “And your relatives?”

  “No, sir. Not a word. They’re God knows where.”

  “I’m sure that they’re alright.” Ansett tried to reassure him.

  “You’re probably right, sir.” But Alan couldn’t look him in the eye. He didn’t want Ansett to see the tears beginning to well up. Please change the subject.

  Ansett spotted the warning signs. “I saw you playing rugby the other day.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m also coaching the Third XV team. They haven’t had anyone coach them since Mr. Newry was killed.” There was no point pretending any more. Everyone had finally accepted that the ‘missing’ Fusiliers were in fact dead. Alan would not be giving anything away by divulging that information. It no longer a secret. It was common knowledge.

  “Your ankle’s healed well.”

  “My ankle, sir?”

  “Yes, Alan. The ankle that you twisted a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh yes, that ankle!” Alan laughed nervously. “It’s fine now, sir.” Alan tapped it gently. “Although it’s a little bit stiff
at times.” He could feel a bead of sweat drip down his cheek.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it. In fact, such a rapid recovery verges on the miraculous.” Ansett turned around and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Five

  “What’s all this I hear about von Schakenberg carrying out ‘defense exercises’, Zorn?” Schuster was standing directly behind Zorn’s right ear.

  “His battalions are practicing building trenches at Fairfax, sir.” Zorn stood at the position of attention facing Schuster’s desk.

  “At Fairfax?” Schuster was at his left ear. “Does that not strike you as rather suspicious?”

  “Yes, sir, and what is more suspicious is that it is not only von Schnakenberg’s Grenadiers that are carrying out the defense exercise.”

  “Who else?” Schuster demanded returning to his desk.

  “The remnants of the motorcycle battalion and also Wurth’s paras, sir.”

  Schuster sprang up from his chair like a Jack in the box. “Wurth as well! It’s a bloody conspiracy! The Army and the Luftwaffe are in this together.” Schuster slammed his hand on the desk’s surface. Schuster sat down at his desk and took a few deep breaths as he calmed down. “Fatty Goering has a hand in this. You mark my words.” Schuster looked up at Zorn again. “What are they doing there?”

  “They’re digging up the dead.”

  “Whores!” Alan shouted at the top of his voice. “You’re a bloody disgrace! You should be ashamed of yourselves!” The German soldiers strolling in the Town Square started to turn towards the source of the abuse as their English girlfriends desperately tried to drag them away, not wanting to draw any attention to themselves and not wanting any trouble.

  “Alan!” Sam grabbed Alan’s arm.

  “Whores!” Alan screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  Whistles blew. Two Military Policemen started running towards them from across the Square.

  “Alan!” Sam grabbed Alan around the waist, “come on! We’ve got to get out of here!”