Young Lions

by Andrew Mackay

  “Good.” Ansett stood up. “I’m glad to hear it. Because what’s happened so far is child’s play. The bombers have only had to deal with flat footed bicycle cycling Bobbies on the beat who couldn’t catch a cold, never mind armed arsonists.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Sam asked.

  “Christ!” Ansett exclaimed in exasperation. “You don’t get it, do you?” He started to stride purposefully around the classroom, talking and walking as he thought. “If the arsonists continue with their attacks then it will only be a matter of time before they kill a German, whether deliberately or accidentally. It doesn’t matter.”

  “The Huns will take hostages…” Alan began.

  “… And they will shoot them if they fail to find the arsonists,” Sam interrupted, “thus turning the people against them and scoring a spectacular own goal.” He shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”

  Ansett bit his tongue. He refused to let Sam’s question provoke him. “Most of us,” Ansett emphasized, “can see what is going to happen if the attacks do not stop.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Sam suddenly stood up. He could see where Ansett’s train of thought was leading.

  “That we stop them ourselves.” Alan beat Ansett to the punch.

  “What?” Sam exclaimed as if he had been burnt with a red hot poker. He turned around to stare at Alan in disbelief. “‘We stop them ourselves?’ We help the Nazis to catch our own people?” Sam asked rhetorically.

  “They’re not ‘our own people’, Sam,” Ansett answered. “These arsonists are killing British men, women and children. It doesn’t matter whether they, or anyone else, consider them to be innocent or guilty.”

  “You’re going to do the Germans’ dirty work,” Sam accused. “You might as well join up with Mosley and his mob.”

  “No, Sam,” Ansett said patiently. “We’re going to stop the arsonists before the Jerries can start their work.”

  “How?” Sam asked.

  Ansett did not answer.

  “How?” Sam repeated.

  “I don’t know yet,” Ansett admitted. He stopped stomping around the classroom and resumed his position perched on the desk. “But if we work together then we can come up with a plan.”

  “The problem with you, sir, is that you ask all of the right questions, but you don’t have the right answers. Well, the fire bombers do have the answers. They’ve cleaned the Hun whores and their Boche boyfriends off the streets and that is absolutely fine with me.” Sam stormed out of the classroom and slammed the door before either Alan or Ansett could reply.

  “Ah, good morning, Paul.” Harold Ashworth stood up from behind his desk and walked around to the front as Paul Mason walked in. Ashworth was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  “Good morning, Rector.” Mason shook Ashworth’s hand.

  “I believe that you know the Mayor; Mr. Brunswick; Chief Inspector Brown and Bishop Rathdowne?”

  The men all stood up and Mason shook their hands in turn before sitting down.

  “Paul, you are no doubt curious as to why we have asked you to join us here.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, perhaps it would be better if Chief Inspector Brown explained.”

  “Thank you, Harold,” Brown said, leaning forward in his chair. “Captain Mason, as you know we are in the process of expanding the existing Special Constabulary Unit in order to help the Police deal with the criminal activities of various hooligan elements in Hereward.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector. I am aware of the plan.” Mason noticed that Brown considered the arsonists’ actions to be criminally and not politically motivated. The attackers were cowardly criminals. Plain and simple.

  “What are your views on the subject, Captain?” Brown asked.

  “I think that it’s a good idea.” Mason could sense Mayor Brunswick and Bishop Rathdowne nodding their heads with approval. “You can’t allow people to take the law into their own hands.”

  “We cannot allow mob rule in Hereward nor will we allow anarchy to take hold,” Ashworth continued.

  “Have you thought about joining up, Paul?” Rathdowne asked.

  “To be honest, Ben, I hadn’t actually paid it much thought,” Mason admitted.

  “The Special Constabulary needs a commander, Captain Mason,” Brown used Mason’s RRiFF rank, “someone with proven natural leadership abilities, a man whom the men can look up to and we think that you’re the man for the job.”

  “But my work at school. I wouldn’t have time,” Mason protested.

  “You would have more time for work outside school in the Specials if you spent less time teaching. I need a new deputy rector.” Ashworth dangled the carrot in front of Mason’s nose. “Less teaching time, but more responsibility points, a pay rise and a rent free house within the grounds of the school would accompany that position.”

  “And my rank?” Mason asked Brown.

  “Inspector. It’s a fully paid position.”

  Mason’s eyes lit up at the thought of what was being offered. Promotion, privelage, prestige. Power. “Is there anything else that I should know?”

  Brown coughed before he answered. “Brigadefuhreur Schuster is supplying the Police and the Specials with captured British revolvers.”

  “You’re going to work for the Germans?” Mason asked with horror as he nearly leaped off the chair.

  Brown’s face turned red with fury. The hackles of his moustache rose as he opened his mouth to reply.

  But Rathdowne preempted him and cut Brown off at the pass. “Not for the Germans, Paul,” he explained gently. “We will not work for the Germans,” he emphasized. “It just so happens that at this moment in time we share the same enemy-the arsonists.”

  “The Jerries are only supplying weapons, correct?” Mason asked.

  “Correct,” Brown answered who had recovered his self-control.

  “They’re not supplying us with ‘advisers’ or anything like that? We’re not having joint patrols?”

  “No.”

  “The Specials will only deal with civil matters, not political?”

  “Yes. I guarantee it.”

  Mason looked into the expectant faces of the four most powerful and influential men in Hereward. He felt a wave of adrenalin surge through his body. The success or failure of this entire venture depended on the decision that he was about to make. “I’ve made up my mind.”

  The men sat forward on the edge of their seats with expectation.

  “I accept.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Do you love me, Hans?” Margaret Paterson asked as she lay in bed.

  “Yes, of course I love you, Maggie,” Hans answered earnestly. “You know I do.”

  Hans Wagner had taught German for three years at Ellis Academy, a prestigious independent school for boys in Cambridge. He had reluctantly returned to Germany during the Munich Crisis in 1938 and he had planned to return to England but he had been conscripted into the Army. Wagner was a passionate Anglophile and he considered it a great tragedy that Germany and Britain were at war.

  Margaret Patterson taught French and German at St. Mary’s School for Girls in Cambridge and she had met and fallen in love with Hans during her summer holidays in Germany in 1935. Unfortunately, when Hans was conscripted their wedding plans were put on hold and when the war began both Hans and Maggie buckled under the weight of intense parental pressure from both sides and broke off their engagement.

  However, Han’s unexpected arrival in Hereward as a leutnant in the Potsdam Grenadiers had changed everything. Both Margaret and Hans felt that fortune was smiling on them and the Gods had given them a second chance.

  “So, it’s all set then, Hans?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes, my love. Everything is set. I’ve saved u
p most of my pay for the last four months and we should have enough money to get a train to Wales and a ferry across to Ireland.”

  “You’re sure that you won’t be missed until Monday?”

  “I’m certain that I won’t.” Hans nodded. “I’ve got Weekend Leave and as far as my commanding officer is concerned I’m living it up in London as we speak. I won’t be missed until morning parade on Monday.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday so that will give us two whole days to get away before we’re missed.”

  “Yes.”

  Margaret thought for a moment. “Are you sure that we’re doing the right thing?”

  “What choice do we have? Your parents disapprove. My parents disapprove…?” Hans shrugged his shoulders.

  “And there are all of these firebomb attacks.”

  “Exactly.” Hans hugged Margaret tightly. “We have absolutely no choice. It is far too dangerous here. We can’t be seen in public.”

  “Even people who knew that we were engaged before the War won’t speak to us.” Margaret sighed.

  “Don’t be too hard on them, Maggie.” Hans gently placed his hand on her arm. “It’s not them, it’s not us. It’s the War.”

  “Will we be safe in Ireland?”

  “We’ll be safe as long as it stays neutral.”

  “What if your mob invades?”

  “Stop saying ‘my mob,’Maggie!” Hans’face turned crimson with anger and he jumped off the bed as if someone had rammed a red-hot poker up his behind. “They’re not my mob! I voted Communist in’33; I broke my hand fighting the Nazis in the streets! I was conscripted into the Army, I didn’t volunteer! I’ve deserted! I’ll be shot if I’m captured!”

  “I’m sorry, my love,” Maggie laughed. “Come back to bed.” She patted the pillow. “I know how much you hate the Nazis. I’m only teasing you.”

  “Well, don’t.” Hans sulked. “I hate the Nazis as much as you do. They took me away from England and away from you and I won’t let it happen again.”

  “If the Nazis attack Ireland we’ll escape to America.” Maggie threw her pillow into the air.

  “And if they attack America then we’ll escape to the moon!” Hans copied her.

  “They’ll never catch us!” Margaret hooked Hans across the chin with her pillow and sent him tumbling out of the bed. Hans grabbed a pillow and brought it crashing down on top of Margaret’s head. The pillow exploded and Margaret became covered in a thin layer of feathers. She launched herself at Hans and sent him sprawling across the width of the bed. Margaret leaped onto Hans’ chest and raised her own pillow above her head to deliver the coup de grace. “What was that?” She suddenly sat bolt upright.

  “A squeaking door?”

  “Not a door.” Margaret swung her legs onto the floor. “A letterbox!”

  There was a loud crash of shattering glass followed a split second later by the sound of two explosions in quick succession.

  “Firebomb attack!” Margaret shouted. “Quick! Down the stairs!”

  Hans jumped out of bed and grabbed his Sam Browne belt holding his holster and Luger pistol.

  Margaret grabbed her dressing gown and opened the bedroom door. She rushed along the corridor to the stairs leading down to the ground floor with Hans hot on her heels.

  “Too late,” Margaret said. A wall of flames blocked off their escape route to the front door. Smoke was billowing throughout the ground floor and the flames were starting to creep up the stairs.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Hans shouted above the sound of the fire.

  “Yes. Through the skylight in the attic. Here. Help me grab the pole to pull down the trapdoor.” They knelt down on the floor and felt their way along the skirting board at the bottom of the wall until they found a pole with a hook at one end. Smoke was rapidly filling up the first floor corridor making it difficult to see. They both stood up and raised the hook pole to a vertical position. Margaret guided the pole as they searched for the ring in the ceiling that would release the trap door.

  “Hurry, Maggie!” Hans urged. The flames were half way up the stairs and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see and breathe.

  “Nearly there.” Maggie spotted the ring in the roof through the smoke and lunged with the pole. Missed.

  “Maggie, the flames are nearly at the top of the …”

  “I know! I know!” Maggie shouted. She saw the ring again and thrust the pole out like a lance. Missed again.

  Hans looked over his shoulder. The flames were now at the top of the stairs and they were advancing over the threshold. Hans said nothing. There was nothing to say. If Maggie missed this time then they would not get out.

  “Third time lucky,” Maggie muttered to herself under her breath. She reached out and hooked the ring. “Thank God! Pull, Hans!” They both pulled on the pole with all of their strength. The trap door immediately swung open. Flames were now licking their way along the corridor towards them.

  “How do we get up?” Hans asked.

  “Step ladder in the spare bedroom.” But the spare bedroom was now cut off. There was no time left and no way out.

  “Quick, Maggie. Climb onto my shoulders.” Hans knelt down on the floor and Maggie climbed onto his shoulders. Hans gingerly stood up, coughing and spluttering, the smoke was making it extremely difficult to breathe. “Grab the edge and pull yourself up,” he ordered.

  Maggie grabbed the edge of the trap door entrance as Hans tottered backwards and forwards beneath her trying to keep his balance. She summoned up all of her strength and pulled herself through the hole, standing on Hans’ shoulders.

  “Hans!” Maggie shouted through the smoke. “How will you get up?”

  Hans rushed through to Maggie’s bedroom and grabbed hold of a chest of drawers. He quickly emptied the drawers out onto the floor and dragged it down the smoke filled corridor. He positioned it beneath the trap door and climbed on top. He stood up and stretched out his arms. His fingertips just managed to curl around the edge of the entrance. The flames were spiraling up the legs of the chest of drawers.

  One pull up, Hans thought to himself, then Wales, Ireland and we’re home Scot-free.

  He hesitated for a split second as the welcome thought raced through his head. The first floor collapsed and the chest of drawers disappeared. The shock made Hans lose his grip. The last sound that he heard was Maggie’s scream as he fell into the flames below.

  The couple walked along the street arm-in-arm without a care in the world, meandering aimlessly from one side of the deserted street to the other and back again as if they were a ship that had lost control of its rudder. They finally stopped outside a gate. The woman leaned back against the wall and the man leaned against her.

  Two black figures increased their pace and rapidly closed the gap between them and their prey. The kissing couple remained blissfully unaware of the approaching danger. Their pursuers stopped walking and stood on the opposite side of the road to their quarry. They were taking their time. There was no need to rush things. This was the best bit. The moment of realization. The moment when their victims realized that they were about to die.

  The man whispered a sweet nothing in the woman’s ear. She laughed and opened her eyes. She gasped. The man’s head whipped around and his right hand raced for his revolver.

  “Not so fast, Fritz.” One of the black clad figures warned. The man’s hand stopped in mid air.

  “Hands in the air, Adolf,” the other black clad figure ordered. “You too, you Nazi whore,” he snarled. The woman flinched at the insult. She knew who these people were now. A thin, hot stream of urine dribbled down her legs and formed a rapidly expanding pool of fear on the ground.

  “What…what do you want?” The man stammered, his hands trembling.

  “Your life.” The two rounds shatte
red the German’s collarbone and punched into his heart. He fell to the ground with an astonished look on his face and died quickly as the blood pumped out of him.

  “And yours, you treacherous whore.” The gunman fired two bullets into the woman’s chest. She died before she had time to beg for mercy.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to either of you,” Sam said belligerently. He stood up from behind his class room desk and started heading for the door. Ansett quickly moved to the door and blocked the exit.

  “I think that you’ll want to listen to this,” Ansett said. “Just hear me out and then you can go.”

  “Alright.” Sam nodded his head. “But make it quick. I’ve got people to do and things to see.” He turned around and walked back to his desk. He leaned with his back against it and folded his arms.

  Ansett did not pay attention to Sam’s deliberately rude response. Instead he paid attention to Sam himself. Sam had recovered his pride and self confidence since the firebomb attacks had started. He was more sure of himself and he had rediscovered a sense of purpose.

  Alan was also watching Sam as he settled down. He also thought that Sam had changed. For one thing he and Sam had barely exchanged half a dozen civil words since their argument in Ansett’s classroom last week. Sam had found a new group of friends at school. The new group of friends bizarrely included Danny Edwards and his cronies. It appeared that all had been forgiven since the incident at the New Year’s Eve Party. Both boys had blamed each other for their public humiliation and here they were now, bosom buddies. Alan couldn’t figure it out. He also knew that Sam had hardly spoken a word to Alice since the New Year Eve Party five weeks ago. Alan was certain that Sam was an arsonist. He knew that Ansett thought that he was one too. Well, What Ansett was about to say would prove it one way or another.

  “Did you know that Mary Butler was murdered last night?” Ansett asked.

  “Another Hun whore bites the dust,” Sam sneered. “So what?”

  Ansett ignored Sam’s deliberately provocative remark. “Did you know that an S.S. Hauptsturmfuhrer was also killed?”