Young Lions

by Andrew Mackay

  “Questions, comments, flaws in my masterful plan to take over the world?” Schuster asked.

  “One question, sir: how, may I ask, have Generalmajor Wurth and Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg reacted to your proposal?”

  “London has ordered them to agree. They have each been ordered to provide a company of troops as a guard of honour and all three of us will present a wreath on behalf of our respective services.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Whilst we’re on the subject, Zorn, what is the current state of play regarding our feud with the Luftwaffe?”

  “I would say that it’s rather more than a feud, sir. It’s a blood vendetta in true “Romeo and Juliet” style. Ever since the “Chicken and Egg” incident there have been outbreaks of violence every night. Dozens of men have been injured on both sides and there have even been several deaths.”

  “My God. I had no idea that things had got so bad. How has Wurth reacted?”

  “He has done absolutely nothing to stop it, sir. In fact, he has encouraged it.”

  “And the Army, Zorn?”

  “On the surface the Army has remained neutral but under the surface Army sympathies are firmly with the paras.”

  “No surprises there, Zorn. Von Schnakenberg and Wurth are as thick as thieves. They’re bound together by class and regimental loyalty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How have the public reacted?”

  “The public treat it all as a big joke,” Zorn said bitterly. “Instead of wandering down to the park on a Sunday afternoon to listen to a brass band playing they walk to the Square to watch our boys scrapping with the paras. The Armed Forces as a whole have become a laughing stock. “

  “All the more reason to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.” Schuster stood up and slammed a clenched fist into his hand. “We must show the people of Hereward that we are not a mob of undisciplined, uncultured barbarians.” He puffed out his chest like a robin. “We are members of the greatest civilization that the world has ever seen!”

  “Your ankle seems to have made a full discovery,” Ansett said as he walked alongside Alan.

  “Sir?” Alan was confused.

  “Your ankle,” Ansett pointed.

  “Oh yes, sir, my ankle,” Alan laughed uneasily. He stopped and leant on a lamppost as he stretched and flexed it. “As good as gold, sir. Although it can be a little stiff after I’ve done anything physical.” Such as killing Germans, you no good, low down, dirty, Hun loving traitor. Where were you when the shooting started and what were were you doing? Dusting down your welcoming mat and hanging out your swastika?

  Alan started walking again.

  Ansett remained where he was. “Alan.”

  “Yes, sir?” He stopped.

  “You can give up your charade.”

  “Sir?” Alarm bells started to ring in his head.

  “You can give up your charade about your ankle.”

  Alan started walking again, speeding up, “I’m afraid that I don’t understand, sir.” A bead of sweat ran down his cheek.

  Ansett caught up with him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I talked to Mr. Mason, or Captain Mason, your company commander. He said that both you and Sam fought bravely at Wake and Fairfax.”

  Alan clenched his fists as he desperately tried to fight off a rising tide of panic that threatened to engulf him. “He must’ve have mistaken me for someone else.” He shrugged off Ansett’s hand and kept walking.

  “Alan, he’s known you for two years in the Officer Training Corps, he taught you German last year and he teaches Sam this year. He hasn’t made any mistake.” Ansett said matter of factly.

  Alan stopped walking. Can I trust you? His Luger pistol was pressing uncomfortably against his crotch where he had hidden it down his trousers. Both Sam and he had agreed to be armed at all times. They had been deadly serious when they had sworn that they would rather die fighting than be captured alive. “Alright, we both fought at Wake and Fairfax. So what?” Alan was rapidly losing his temper despite knowing that he had to keep his wits about him. Have you sold your soul to the Devil, Ansett? Are you a traitor? Am I going to have to start killing my own people?

  “The War is not over.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not alone.”

  Alan’s legs seemed to turn to rubber. His energy seeped out of him like air escaping from a punctured balloon. He sat down on a wall to gather his thoughts and regain his strength. Can I trust you? Is the Luger loaded? Is it made ready? Is there a round already up the spout? Can I squeeze off a round and kill you, you treacherous bastard, before you can call your Jerry friends? Too dazed and confused to think straight. I must think. I need time to think. What to say? What to do?

  “What do you want from me?” Alan asked.

  “Are you ready to pick up the gauntlet again?”

  “What about all of that ‘laughing at another’s person’s expense’ in the square rubbish?”

  “A smokescreen.”

  A pretty damned effective one, Alan thought.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  You have absolutely no idea what I’m capable of. What I’ve seen. What I’ve done. You’d run a mile and you wouldn’t stop to look back. “You didn’t join up. You were in the last War, you were Mentioned in Dispatches for God’s sake, you were in the last War and you didn’t join up for this one.” The words tumbled out as soon as the thoughts entered his head.

  “I had reasons for that. I can explain.”

  “How?” Alan stood with his hands on his hips.

  “In fact, I can do better than that. I can show you. I can prove it to you.”

  Alan could almost taste and touch Ansett’s desperate desire to be believed. His yearning urge to be trusted again as one of the good guys. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Come to my classroom after school.”

  “How close are we to finishing?” Wurth asked, surveying the field.

  “The men are working flat out, sir,” Lindau answered.

  Wurth’s paratroopers, von Schnakenberg’s Grenadiers and his adopted motorcyclists were scattered across the fields are far as the eye could see, busy digging up the mass graves of the dead civilians and slaughtered British soldiers. Other soldiers were collecting documents from the murdered men, women and children and dog tags from the bodies of the executed Fusiliers. A group of desk bound soldiers were recording details from the rapidly growing mountain of mouldy and musty material. Once the documents had been catalogued they were put into empty ammunition boxes. When the ammunition box became full it was locked shut with a padlock and an armed sentry was posted to guard it. Photographers were methodically taking photos of the dead.

  “How much longer?” Wurth asked.

  “We should be finished by tomorrow.”

  “Friday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Wurth nodded his head. “We have a rehearsal for the Remembrance Day Parade on Saturday, Remembrance Day takes place on Sunday and we leave for Germany that afternoon.”

  “You will have to intercept and destroy Wurth’s Fairfax report, Zorn,” Schuster said firmly.

  “Me, sir? How?” Zorn was absolutely horrified.

  “Wurst leaves Hereward straight after the Remembrance Day Parade and I’m sure that he will carry the report on him. We can’t wait until he leaves England. You’ll have to destroy it before he leaves Hereward. Afterwards will be too late.”

  Except that Wurth would be guarded night and day by three thousand armed to the teeth, itching for a fight paratroopers.

  “Are you at all familiar with English History, Zorn?” Schuster asked, picking up a hefty looking book.

  “Sir?” Where was this leading?

  “Who
will rid me of this troublesome priest?” Schuster quoted from the text.

  “I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

  Schuster opened the front of the History text book and pointed to the contents page “That will tell you how to deal with Wurth.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Where’s Sam?” Ansett walked to the class room door and looked up and down the corridor.

  Alan didn’t answer. His silence spoke for itself. I came alone. Incase it was a trap. Can I trust you?

  “I see.” Ansett smiled grimly. He understood. “Follow me.”

  Ansett led the way out of the classroom, down the corridor and out of the building. Alan followed him through the school gates and down the High Street towards the Town Square.

  “Where are we going?” Alan asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Alan was aware that he was sweating profusely despite the fact that it was nearly half way through November. Adrenalin was rushing through his body in waves. He could almost hear his heart pumping his blood through his veins. His right hand strayed to his waist where he could feel the butt of the Luger pistol pressing against his belt buckle. They were walking towards German Headquarters. If you betray me, they won’t take me alive, you bastard. The first bullet will be for you, Ansett, straight in your back. I’ve got four full magazines. I’ll take you and some of your Nazi friends with me and I’ll save the last bullet for myself. They won’t take me alive.

  Ansett kept walking past German Headquarters.

  “Not far now.” Ansett pushed open the giant oak doors of Hereward Cathedral and stepped inside. Alan followed. His hand fell away from his belt buckle. No. It could still be a trap. This is where they take you. When you think that you’re safe. When you think that you’ve made it. When you’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. Ansett fought in the last war, but he didn’t join up for this one. Why? The thought thudded through his mind like the persistent pulse of a headache. He could still be a traitor.

  It was quiet inside. There were only a handful of worshippers scattered throughout the Cathedral sitting on the benches. Plus various groups of German tourists, both civilian and military, malingering around. But were they tourists? Was this a trap? Were they waiting for a signal from Ansett to spring the ambush?

  Ansett headed towards the steps leading down to the crypt. He stopped at the bottom and drew out a large iron key. He inserted the key, turned it and opened the door. Considering its age, the door was surprisingly silent as it swung open. The hinges must be incredibly well oiled, Alan thought to himself. Ansett turned around and casually swept the Cathedral with his eyes to see if anyone had noticed him opening the door. No one seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. “Come on,” He whispered.

  Alan followed him down the stairs. It was deathly quiet, as quiet as … a tomb. Ansett picked up a torchlight that was placed conveniently by the door. “Close the door.” He ordered. Alan did as he was told and then had to pick up the pace to catch up with Ansett as the light from his torch disappeared into the darkness. Alan’s heart skipped a beat in sudden panic at the thought of losing sight of Ansett and being stranded down here in the dark. The thought of spending the rest of his days wandering hopelessly amongst the dead speeded up his steps until he finally caught up with him. Alan kept close behind as they walked down the length of the crypt. Tombs stretched out in front, behind and to either side of them as far as their torchlight could see.

  “This…this place gives me the creeps,” Alan whispered.

  “Why are you whispering? The dead can’t hear you,” Ansett whispered back.

  “I can’t help it,” Alan admitted.

  “They’re already dead, Alan.” Ansett spoke over his shoulder. “You can’t kill them with that thing.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Alan bashfully put his Luger away. How had it got there? He couldn’t remember taking it out of his trousers. He wiped the sweat from the pistol grip before he placed it back inside his underpants.

  They reached the end of the crypt. “Here, give me a hand. Grab the other end of this.” He shined the torch on the lid of a tomb before he put the torch down on the ground.

  “What? This?” Alan asked with confusion.

  “Yes,” Ansett answered. “On my command: lift up, alright?”

  “You must be joking! It must weigh a ton!” Alan said incredulously.

  “Just trust me.”

  Alan realized that he had no other choice. If Ansett wanted to, he could simply switch off his torch, retrace his route to the exit and leave Alan to die with the dead.

  “One, two, three, lift up!”

  “Wood! It’s made out of wood!” Alan held the ‘marble’ lid in his hands.

  Ansett laughed. “Yes! Now, slide it towards me about a foot.”

  Alan did as he was told. He watched in confusion as Ansett climbed up beside the tomb and lowered himself into it. “Come on,” Ansett said. “Or are you going to stand there all day with your thumb up your arse?”

  The shock of hearing Mr. Ansett uttering profanities was sufficient to jerk Alan out of his temporary paralysis. He climbed down a ladder that was built into the side of the ‘tomb.’ He climbed down about twelve feet and found himself standing in a room that measured about fifteen feet by fifteen feet square. Two sets of bunk beds ran alongside one wall of the room and a rack holding a collection of British and German weapons ran alongside another wall. A radio sat on top of a table that ran alongside the third wall and a small gas cooker and a woodwork bench ran alongside the fourth wall. A dining table with four chairs placed around it stood in the centre of the room. The whole scene was illuminated by a naked red light bulb. Red light so that they wouldn’t lose their night vision if they were entering or leaving. Red light so that even if someone entered the crypt they wouldn’t be able to see any light escaping from the hiding place. Alan noticed that there was an extra trap door where the ladder met the ceiling of the hiding place for extra security. Very clever.

  “What’s that?” Alan pointed at where a curtain partitioned off a corner of the room.

  “Gents,” Ansett answered matter of factly.

  Alan laughed. Ansett was relieved. He could not remember the last time that he had heard his House Captain laugh. “Cozy.” Alan wiped away the tears with the sleeve of his blazer.

  “Compact and bijou,” Ansett smiled. “There were four of us,” Ansett explained, his tone suddenly becoming serious. He pre-empted Alan’s next question. He was giving nothing away. There were four bunks. “One of us was killed. It’s not necessary for you to know who this person was.”

  ‘This person,’ Alan noticed. So he/she could be male or female. “You were a Stay Behind Party.”

  Ansett nodded.

  “Your job was to lie low and strike behind enemy lines when the Jerries passed you by.”

  Ansett nodded again.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Alan snapped to a position of attention as if he was on a parade ground. “I thought that you were a coward.”

  “And worse, no doubt, Alan,” Ansett said, shaking Alan’s extended hand. “No apology is necessary, son. That was the general idea. And it worked. People must continue to believe that I am a coward and a defeatist at best and a collaborator and a traitor at worst. From time to time I may have to call upon you and Sam to help me to perpetuate this myth. You will have to remain silent when others condemn me even though you wish to defend me and you may even have to add your voice to theirs. You may even have to cast the first stone.”

  Alan nodded gravely.

  “But the important thing is that you and Sam are not alone anymore.” Ansett picked up a rifle from the rack, checked that the safety catch was on and cocked the weapon in one easy, practiced, fluid motion. “It’s time for the Empire to strike back!”


  It was ten o’clock in the morning on Remembrance Day and soldiers were busy setting up the barricades which would keep the crowds away from the route that the veterans would take to march past. The S.S, the Army and the paratroopers were each responsible for the security of a sector of the Town Square.

  At 10.15 the crowds started to assemble with people picking prime positions by the barricades so that they could get the best view.

  At 10.20 the Honour Guard consisting of one company each of paras, S.S. and Army soldiers marched onto the Square. All eyes were focused on the marching soldiers and no one paid any attention to four paratroopers who weaved their way through the crowd to the west side of the Square. Anyone who did notice them presumed that they were on crowd control duty. Two of the paras headed for the southwest corner of the Square and walked into the communal entrance of a block of tenement flats. They climbed the stairs to the top floor of the five floor block of flats and knocked on the door of the flat.

  S.S. Hauptsturmfuhrer Andreas Schmitt was looking out of his living room window watching the parade preparations and was halfway through his breakfast when he heard a knock at the door. He swore, pulled his dressing gown chord tight, walked to the door and looked through the spy hole.

  “Who is it?” Schmitt asked.

  “Orders,” one of the paras answered.

  “Verdammt!” Schmitt swore. “Today’s my day off.” He swallowed his last piece of marmalade-covered toast and opened the door. “Oh well, no rest for the wicked.”