“Christ. What a waste.” Alan shook his head.
“Yes. Nick will be turning in his unmarked grave. I guess that Davie just wanted revenge. His dad died of lung cancer shortly after Davie was born. He contracted the disease as a result of suffering a gas attack during the last war.”
They both stood in silence.
“Did he say anything before he died?” Hitch asked.
“No.” Alan lied. “He must’ve realized that he’d made a noise. He heard me coming and opened fire as I reached him. Fortunately, his aim was as poor as his judgment and he missed. Look.” Alan walked over to the oak tree and pointed at the bullet entry points.
“I see.” Hitch examined the entry points. “You can still see the bullets stuck in the tree.” He shined his torch on the tree. “And then you fired back?”
“Yes. Two shots.”
“And both shots hit him in the chest?” Hitch looked at the still warm corpse of his friend’s son. “Good shooting, Alan.”
“Beginners’ luck.” Alan shrugged modestly.
“Luck has got nothing to do with it. You fought at Wake and Fairfax. Jones is not the first person that you’ve killed.”
“Davie Jones was British. He was a person. The others were just Huns. This is different,” Alan said with a heavy heart through gritted teeth.
“Jones and his friends are responsible for the deaths of British men, women and children. He acted as judge, jury and executioner. He’s exactly the same as a Jerry pilot who drops bombs on defenseless refugees,” Hitch said resolutely. “Jones didn’t say anything before he died, you said.”
“No. Not a word.” Stick to the story, Alan thought to himself.
“Except that we’re standing here on the corner of Brighton and Fitzroy Street.”
“So what?” Alan asked. He was beginning to feel uneasy.
“Whose house is that over there?” Hitch pointed at the house on the corner. Hitch knew fine well that Alan knew.
“The Roberts House.”
“And who lives there?”
“The Roberts Family,” Alan answered impatiently. “For Christ’s sake, Hitchy, where is all of this leading?”
“You tell me, Alan. You tell me,” Hitch said slowly.
“Look, Hitchy. The Roberts Family has nothing to do with any of this. Alice is going out with an S.S. officer, for crying out loud.”
“And their house is one of the few that hasn’t been firebombed.”
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Alan said stubbornly.
“It means everything!” Hitch snarled. “These killers are not lone vigilantes. They work in pairs. They are organized. Danny Edwards, Peter Miller, Davie Jones and…” Hitch paused, “Sam Roberts.”
“How-?”
“I’ve been a Policeman for twenty years, Alan,” Hitch interrupted. “I know all of the shortcuts, back streets and alleyways. I heard the entire conversation. I heard everything. The game’s up.”
Alan was too shocked to reply. All of his scheming had come to naught. “I know that you murdered Davie Jones in cold blood.” Alan’s heart missed a beat. “But I’m willing to forget that minor detail. What ever my personal feelings might be about him being Nick Jones’s son, Davie Jones knew what he was getting himself mixed up in and he got what he deserved.”
“What do you want me to do?” Alan’s shoulders slumped in abject defeat and misery.
“We’ll return to the Station, gather reinforcements and arrest everyone tonight. No exceptions. No warnings. No tip offs. Do you understand?” Hitch looked at Alan right between the eyes.
“Yes,” Alan replied weakly.
“Say it!” Hitch demanded.
“I understand.”
“You’d better, Alan. Or I’ll send you down the river with the rest of them!” Hitch threatened.
Alan nodded.
“You’ll back up my story and help to convince Chief Inspector Brown to take action,” Hitch ordered.
“What will the Jerries do?”
Hitch looked at Alan as if he was the village idiot. “The Jerries? This has got nothing to do with the Jerries. This is British business. This is Police business. It’s a civil matter; not political. The prisoners will be brought to trial and convicted,” Hitch pressed on.
“And executed?”
“That’s for the Courts to decide. They’ll be hung if they’re found guilty of murder.”
Alan slumped to his knees beside the corpse. He heard whistles being blown in the darkness and saw torch lights flashing in the distance. The sound of running footsteps echoed down the streets.
“Other patrols will be here soon, son,” Hitch said. “Just agree with everything that I say. If you play your cards right we can both come out of this with a promotion and medals.”
“You’re asking me to betray my friend.”
“I’m asking you to do the right thing, Alan. Your ‘friend’ has murdered several people: men, women and children. He may even have been planning to murder his own sister.”
That hit a nerve. Because Alan knew it was true.
“By putting Sam Roberts and his friends behind bars you’ll be helping to save the lives of countless people.”
“Is there no other way?”
“I’m sorry, Alan.”
“So am I.” The two rounds sped straight through Hitch’s flimsy woolen tunic into his heart and burst through his back leaving two bloody exit wounds. The bullets buried themselves into a wall on the other side of the road. Hitch collapsed on his back. Alan walked over and calmly checked his pulse with trembling fingers. He walked back to Jones and placed the smoking revolver back in his lifeless fingers. Alan blew sharply on his whistle three times and walked back to Hitch. He knelt down beside him and cradled Hitch’s head in his arms. Tears were still rolling down Alan’s cheeks when the first Policemen found him.
Chapter Thirteen
“It must have been difficult to arrest Alex Roberts,” Zorn said casually.
“What do you mean, sir?” Ulrich’s back tensed.
“Ulrich. Everyone knows that you and Alice are an item,” Zorn smiled amicably.
“I did my duty, sir.” Ulrich came to a position of attention.
“I’m not suggesting otherwise, Ulrich. And no one is suggesting that you didn’t.” Zorn cast the first fishing line. “Were you aware that a terrorist was shot dead last night?”
“No, sir. I had not heard.”
“Yes. A lone terrorist was shot dead last night. The terrorist used a revolver which formerly belonged to S.S. Hauptsturmfuhrer Josef Heiner to murder a Policeman.”
Ulrich breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God, he thought. Alex Roberts and the rest of the hostages would be released.
“Does anything strike you as strange?”
“The terrorist was acting on his own?”
“Exactly!” Zorn slapped a pair of leather gloves in his hand. “We had always assumed that the terrorists worked in small groups or at least in pairs. He was carrying a jerry can full of petrol and a hose.”
“Let me guess: but no bottles with which to make Molotov cocktails?” Ulrich was grateful that he had managed to change the subject away from his relationship with Alice Roberts. “So he was waiting for someone?”
“Yes. But that someone didn’t turn up. Or perhaps another person turned up instead. ” Zorn cast the second fishing line.
“Where was he waiting?”
“The corner of Brighton and Fitzroy Street.” Zorn watched as the blood drained from Ulrich’s face.
The corner of Brighton and Fitzroy Street. He had walked with Alice up that street to her house more times than he could remember. Ulrich knew whom the terrorist had been waiting for: Sam Roberts. But Sam Roberts had not been able to rendezvous with t
he terrorist because Ulrich’s men had beaten him unconscious.
“The dead terrorist has been identified as one David Jones, a Fourth Year student at St. John’s Academy.” Zorn cast the third fishing line. The same school as Sam Roberts. The same year as Sam Roberts. Zorn could almost read Ulrich’s mind. “And do you know who shot David Jones? A young Special who also joined up yesterday, Alan Mitchell.”
Zorn cast the fourth fishing line.
“Incidentally, Mitchell joined up with Roberts.”
“What… what will happen now?” Ulrich struggled to keep his voice steady.
“Roberts will be arrested and handed over to the Gestapo for interrogation.” There was no need to spell out what would happen there. “And then he will be shot.” That was if he actually survived being tortured.
“And… and his family?” Alice. What about Alice?
“They will be handed over to the Gestapo as well…”
Ulrich screamed silently.
“…If they are found guilty of terrorist activites,” which they will be, “then they will be shot.” Zorn paused. “And if they are not found guilty then they will be sent to a concentration camp in Cornwell as punishment for harbouring a terrorist.” Zorn cast the hook to reel Ulrich in.
Ulrich was speechless. What could he say? He tried not to think of Alice in the hands of those animals. “Is there anything. Is there anything that can be done…?” Ulrich asked pathetically.
“There is nothing that anyone can do, Ulrich,” Zorn said slowly. “The death of one teenage terrorist is not enough. Both the Army and the S.S. are baying for blood. We want our revenge. Not even a schoolboy would believe that one child terrorist caused all of these deaths and all of this destruction. It will not satisfy Schuster or von Schnakenberg and it will certainly not satisfy Headquarters in London. They all want their pound of flesh.” He glanced at Ulrich. He looked completely drained of energy. Of hope. “We can’t hope to catch all of the terrorists. Many of them are copycat killings anyway. But… but, if we can capture or kill a few more terrorists as an example, maybe this will scare off the copycats.”
Ulrich appeared deep in thought. Zorn could almost hear the cogwheels turning in his head. “Let me get this right: if we capture or kill some more terrorists then Schuster will free the hostages?”
“Yes.” Zorn nodded. “The Brigadefuhreur does not want to shoot the hostages. At the moment the townspeople are on our side. He doesn’t want to alienate them. If he shoots the hostages then London will think that he can’t control the situation here and replace him. He is searching for a reason to release the hostages without losing face. We can provide him with a reason.”
“By murdering innocent people?”
“If we have to. Yes.” Zorn shrugged his shoulders dismissively.
“I… I don’t know if I can do it again, sir,” Ulrich mumbled.
Zorn slammed the palm of his hand onto the desk. “I’m sick of playing games with you, Ulrich!” He screamed, his face turning red with rage. “I’m not asking you! I’m ordering you!”
Ulrich was stunned by Zorn’s outburst. He’d never heard him raise his voice before.
“You don’t get it, do you, Ulrich?” Zorn snarled, his lips curling in an ugly grimace. “I know. I know that you warned Alice that we were going to arrest her father!”
The colour drained from Ulrich’s face. How? The word formed on his lips, but he had been struck dumb.
“It doesn’t matter ‘how’ and why: I just do.”
Ulrich was speechless. Spies. In his own platoon. His own men. Men he would kill for. Men he would die for. He swayed from side to side like a tall tree caught in a strong wind.
Zorn walked up to Ulrich and stood so close that their noses were almost touching. “Senior Obersturmfuhrer Norbert Ulrich, I charge you with passing secret information to the enemy. You have tried to aid and abet the enemy to evade lawful arrest and by your treacherous actions you have endangered the lives of German soldiers.”
Ulrich was nearly lifted bodily off the ground by the enormity of Zorn’s accusation. His bottom lip began to quiver. Zorn’s spittle covered his face. “Yes, Ulrich! Treachery! You passed secret information to Alice Roberts, the sister of Sam Roberts who murdered German soldiers! You are a traitor and you should be shot!” Zorn stabbed his forefinger in the air, inches from Ulrich’s face. “However…” Zorn lowered his voice to a conversational level and circled behind Ulrich like a tiger circling its prey. “However…I’m willing to take a chance on you, Ulrich, I believe that you’re not beyond redemption. I think that you can be saved.” Zorn paused dramatically. “I am willing to forgive your…how can I put it? Error of judgment and forget the involvement of the Roberts Family in terrorist activities in return for your full co-operation.”
“What do you want me to do?” Ulrich sobbed.
“Exactly as I say.”
“Achtung!” The harsh guttural voice shouted. “Raus! Raus!”
The dozen men reluctantly rose to their feet and wiped the sleeping dust from their red eyes with dirt-encrusted hands. The men watched as an S.S. officer entered the room. “You are to be freed,” the German announced in French. “You will be transported to London immediately. Tomorrow you will be taken to Dover and then you will be repatriated across the Channel. By this time tomorrow you will be in France.”
The prisoners were too shocked to react. It took a few seconds for the news to sink in. Realization gradually dawned. Pandemonium broke out as the men broke out in a barrage of mutual backslapping and hugs. Tears washed away the grime as they trickled down dirty faces. Someone started singing “The Marseillaise.” More men joined in until a dozen voices drowned out the sounds of the guards in joyful celebration of their imminent liberation. When they had finished singing the prisoners continued their orgy of backslapping, Gallic kisses and hugs.
The S.S. officer’s lips curled downwards in Teutonic distaste at this unaryan display of emotion. He looked at his watch. Timing was of the essence. He had fifteen minutes to reach the disembarkation point. “You’ve got one minute to grab your things,” he announced. “If you’re not ready then we’ll leave without you.”
There was an avalanche of activity as the prisoners hurriedly gathered up their blankets and other meager possessions. They quickly exited the small and cramped room that had served as their cell. They shivered as they walked out of a side entrance and stamped their feet and hugged themselves in a futile attempt to keep out the biting cold of the January night. They waited by the back of the lorry. Two S.S. troopers undid the tailgate and they both motioned the prisoners to get on by waving their Schmeisser machine guns. The prisoners climbed on board, chattering excitedly despite the chill. They sat down on the benches that ran along each side of the lorry. One of the soldiers climbed on board and sat on the bench at the back of the lorry.
The S.S. officer appeared against the tailgate. The S.S. trooper beside him lifted a large box onto the lorry. “A present from Germany as a gesture of goodwill,” he announced, “in the hope that peace will once again be restored between our two great countries.”
The prisoner nearest the box reached in his hand. He pulled out a bottle. “Vin!” He exclaimed. He looked at the German in shocked disbelief. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur,” he said.
“Avec plaisir,” the officer replied. He nodded his head to the soldier standing beside him. The German threw a handful of small cartons into the lorry. The prisoners scrambled around and picked them up.
“Tabac!” They shouted. The prisoners ripped the packets open in frenzy and frantically lit up, cramming one, two, three cigarettes into their mouths at the same time in their desperation. Other prisoners were passing around the bottles.
“We’ll be stopping in about ten minutes to allow you to stretch your legs,” the S.S. Officer announced. “It’s a long lorry ride
to London.”
The prisoners were too busy boozing and stuffing their faces to reply.
“Alright.” the German said to the driver. “Let’s get this over with.”
Sam’s head was thumping as he walked along the street and it was not just because of the cold. Ulrich’s men had given him a good going over the night before and had left him with a nasty headache. Although it had largely gone away, he was still not feeling 100%. However, he had insisted on coming out on patrol.
Chief Inspector Brown had ordered the patrols to be beefed up in response to the German threat to execute the hostages. Brown had decided that the only way to prevent the Germans from murdering the men and women was to capture any terrorists still at large. Instead of a patrol consisting of one Policeman and one Special, each patrol was now made up of one Policeman and three Specials.
Sam looked to his left and felt Alan’s reassuring presence. A few yards in front of the pair walked Bill Linsdell, another sixteen year old Special and a fellow student at St. John’s. The patrol commander, P.C. Alf “Jock” MacDonald, a regular Police officer, walked to Bill’s right. All four men walked along the street with revolvers drawn. They were not going to be caught unawares like poor Hitchy was last night. They were determined to deal with the criminals and take them dead or alive.
The S.S. Officer and driver sat in silence as the lorry traveled through the dark streets of Hereward. The prisoners sitting in the back of the lorry were singing songs at the top of their voices and were becoming drunk and disorderly at a rapid rate of knots.
The prisoners were the flotsam and jetsam of the defeated French Army that had washed up on the southern shores of England following the “miracle” of Dunkirk and they were united by one overwhelming desire: the desire to return to France. Although prior to the Invasion their accommodation had been far from luxurious, their living quarters had at least been above ground level and they had been allowed to go to the toilet and wash themselves without having to ask for permission and without being accompanied by an armed escort. Unfortunately, Hereward had experienced a rather dramatic change of management. Their new German hosts were not quite as hospitable as the original owners.
Young Lions Page 13
