“You didn’t give any such order, sir?”
“No, Obersturmführer Monat, I most certainly did not.”
“Ah…”
“Yes, Monat. ‘Ah…’ The penny drops,” Ulrich said menacingly. “Obersturmführer Niebergall was carrying out an independent Search and Destroy mission in revenge for the deaths of most of his platoon who were killed in the St George’s Day Massacre. Do you agree with my assessment of the situation so far?”
“Yes, sir…”
“And you were naïve and stupid enough to go along with his one-man vigilante operation without making sure that he had the necessary authorisation?” Ulrich asked rhetorically.
“Yes, sir,”
Ulrich unscrewed the cap of his bottle of Whyte and Mackay whiskey, slowly poured himself a dram, and swung idly from side to side in his padded leather chair. “Whatever am I going to do with you, Monat?”
Ulrich watched as Monat gulped. He was certain that Monat’s throat would be as dry as the Sahara desert.
“ I mean, technically speaking you haven’t exactly disobeyed an order as you were not in fact given any order… technically speaking…”
Ulrich looked up at Monat who had resumed his position of staring at the picture of the Führer. He watched as a bead of sweat slowly ran down Monat’s face from his temple to his chin. Ulrich smiled as he imagined how sweaty the palms of Monat’s hands must be, as he deliberately made him squirm and suffer…
“On the other hand, I don’t want a loose cannon under my command waging a one-man war on his own…”
“If you give me another chance I promise that I won’t disappoint you, sir,” Monat blurted out before he could stop himself.
Ulrich paused dramatically.
“You better not, Monat, or I will have you shipped back to garrison duty in Berlin so fast that it will make your head swim. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
“I sincerely hope so for your own sake. Don’t give me cause to regret my decision to give you a second chance. Return to your duties, Obersturmführer Monat. Dismissed!”
“Yes, sir! I won’t let you down, sir! Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler!”
Ulrich chuckled to himself, shook his head in amusement and took another sip of whiskey as he watched Monat virtually float out of his office with relief. Ulrich patted his stomach. All of this empire building had made him feel rather peckish. He reached for another one of the exceedingly good pork pies that were arranged in a pyramid on a plate on his desk. He must remember to pass his recommendations through Alice to the farm butcher who made them.
“Mission accomplished?” Sam asked as his sister walked through the front door.
“Mission accomplished,” Alice said as she slumped down wearily on top of a sofa.
“Did he talk?” Alan asked.
“Niebergall? Well, he knew that he was going to die, but we gave him the chance to die hard or to die easy. What choice do you think he made?”
“To die easy,” Alan answered.
“Of course he did,” Alice nodded. “As would any of us in a similar situation.”
“I know that I would,” Sam agreed. “I’d give both of you up to the Gestapo as soon as they allowed a pig to start tickling my toes.”
“Well, let’s just be grateful that the Gestapo haven’t stumbled across that particular torture technique. As for Niebergall, he sang like a canary,” Alice chuckled as she slung her legs over the arm of the settee. “At the end he would have admitted that he wore lady’s underwear.”
“Did he say anything interesting?” Alan continued.
“Yes, he did.” Alice sat bolt upright, suddenly deadly serious. “We’ve got to let Edinburgh know right away.”
“Percy has informed us that the ‘Triple S’ has started carrying out intensive Brigade scale river crossing exercises at the mouth of the Great Ouse River where it meets the Wash at King’s Lynn,” Brigadier John Daylesford said as he passed the decoded message to Peter Ansett.
“How many independent sources have confirmed the report, sir?” Ansett asked as he read the message.
“Two.” Daylesford answered as he folded up the message. “From an SS Obersturmführer in the Fifth SS Regiment and the Sturmbannführer in acting command of all SS forces in Hereward.”
“From Ulrich? From ‘The Cat?’” Ansett asked with raised eyebrows.
“Yes,” Daylesford confirmed in confused surprise. “You sound as if you know him.”
“I do,” Ansett nodded. “He basically stopped a mob of SS thugs from beating me to death when I was a prisoner in SS torture cells.”
“By Jove!” Daylesford exclaimed. “That was lucky!”
“You could say that I owe him my life… in fact, I’m not exactly sure whose side he’s batting for.” Ansett furrowed his eyebrows as he spoke his thoughts aloud. “It could very well be ours.”
“Don’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgement, Peter,” Daylesford warned. “In this game, all suspects are guilty until proven innocent; don’t forget that he’s the enemy until proven otherwise.”
“Yes, sir,” Ansett said formally. “So it looks like the invasion is coming?”
“I’m afraid so,” Daylesford nodded sombrely. “The evidence points to a river crossing over the River Tweed at Berwick- upon-Tweed.”
“The question is: when?”
“Yes. That’s the six million dollar question. Peter, send a message to Percy to find out where and when the invasion will take place.”
“Yes, sir.”
Daylesford stood up, flattened down his trousers, straightened his tunic and put on his cap. “I’m off to tell Winston.”
“Will we be ready for them when they come, sir?” Ansett asked.
“We’d better be,” Daylesford replied grimly.
Chapter Two
David Mitchell cannonballed into his big brother with such force and velocity that he almost knocked him off his feet.
“Whoa! Easy tiger!” Alan said with a smile as he gave his little brother a gigantic bear hug.
“Where have you been, Al? I’ve been worried sick!” David asked as he wiped away tears of joy with the back of his hands. “I thought that you were dead!”
“What do you mean?” Alan asked with genuine bewilderment. “I stayed with Sam and Alice during the Easter holidays. You know that, Davie, just as you stayed with the Millers.”
“Yes, but after the St George’s Day Massacre and the destruction of the Specials I thought that you and Sam were dead. You could have phoned to let me know that you were all right!”
“The destruction of the Specials? What on earth are you talking about?” Alan asked.
“After the Specials and the Police opened fire on the SS the Huns killed them all, even the wounded, and refused to take prisoners,” David explained.
Alan’s face drained of all colour and he turned as pale as the wall that he leaned against. “Are they still hunting down all of the surviving Specials?” he asked as he tried to figure out how he could warn Sam. He felt sick as he realised that the Germans could have already arrested Sam and could already be on their way to arrest him.
“That’s unlikely, Al,” David shook his head. “If they haven’t arrested you already then I think that it’s unlikely that they still intend to arrest you in the future.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because the Records Room in Police Headquarters containing the names, addresses and personal details of both the Police and Specials burnt down last night. I think that you and Sam are safe, big brother.” David put his hand on Alan’s shoulders.
“Thanks, Davie.” Alan put his hand on top of his brother’s and gave him a squeeze.
David paused before he spoke. “Al, Mr Ansett is missing.”
“Really?” Alan found it difficult to act as if he was surprised. He was certain that his little brother would not be fooled by his amateur dramatics.
David nodded his head. �
�Yes. That’s why I guess that we’re here.” David stretched both of his arms wide. “The whole of Cromwell House is gathered here, Al… at least, what’s left of it. The word on the grapevine is that Ashworth is coming to speak to us.”
“I see.” Alan noticed for the first time that several familiar faces were missing.
“Fatty Arbuckle, George West and Del Boy Blake are all missing.”
“They were probably killed in the crossfire. Has anyone checked in the morgue? Ah, here’s movement…”
Harold Ashworth, the Rector of St John’s Academy, swept imperiously into the Cromwell Junior Common Room with a dramatic swish of his gown. A slim tweed-suited young man, who was similarly clad in a cape, followed him. Ashworth strode purposefully to the bay window end of the room and turned around to face the housemates. He planted his legs apart and placed both of his clenched fists on his hips. The House Matron, Mrs Abby Burgess, stood beside him.
“Boys, as you have no doubt realised, Mr Ansett is missing, as are many of your schoolmates, both in this house and in the wider school community. The Germans have not yet allowed access to the morgue, which is full to the point of overflowing. However, I have visited Hereward Hospital to search for your friends. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the missing have not been found, and it is my sad duty to inform you that they most likely never will be, and are probably dead.”
Most of the boys burst out crying and Alan knew that it was futile to fight the flood of tears that ran freely down his face. He put his arm around his brother and gave him a tight squeeze. One of Davie’s young friends came up to the two brothers and Alan gathered him into the group hug. Another of Davie’s mates joined them, until all of the Cromwell boys were joined together in a giant circle of grief like a team talk before a rugby match. Mrs Burgess walked amongst the boys offering an ample bosom to cry on.
Ashworth waited for the crying to die down and for the boys to look up before he continued. “It is my pleasure to introduce Mr John Baldwin. Although I wish that I was doing so under more pleasant circumstances. Mr Baldwin completed his teacher training at Cambridge University last year and is an Old Boy. In fact, he was House Captain of Cromwell from 1935 until 1936. He will replace Mr Ansett as Principal Teacher of Geography and he will perform the duties of acting House Master of Cromwell House until Captain Mason recovers and is able to take over as permanent House Master of Cromwell…”
“Excuse me, sir,” Alan interrupted. “I didn’t quite catch you. Did you say that Captain Mason was going to take over as permanent House Master of Cromwell?”
“Yes, I did, Mitchell, and I would ask you to be so kind as not to interrupt in the future.”
“Sorry, sir.” Alan dipped his head in apology.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I thought that the SS killed all of the Specials, sir.”
“But you’re a Special and the SS didn’t kill you.”
“Yes, sir.” There was no denying it.
“Captain Mason also survived and is recovering from his war wounds at Hereward Hospital.” Ashworth started to leave and then stopped in his tracks. “In fact, come to think of it, both you, Captain Mason and young Sam Roberts all survived not only the destruction of the Specials but also the destruction of the Hereward Home Guard as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It seems that the fates of yourself, Roberts and Captain Mason are inextricably linked.”
Alan’s heart was beating so hard that he thought that if he opened his mouth to answer his heart would literally leap out of his mouth. Alan said nothing as Ashworth left the room, leaving Baldwin in charge.
Alan was too preoccupied with deep thought to notice the new housemaster examining him with keen interest.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the boys said in unison.
“Good afternoon, boys,” the Hereward Hospital receptionist answered, “What can I do for you?”
“We were wondering if it might be possible to pay Captain Mason a visit,” Alan asked.
“You’re two of his students?”
The boys nodded.
The receptionist checked her notes and shook her head. “I’m sorry, boys, but Captain Mason is in no fit state to receive visitors and probably will not be for many days, if not weeks, to come.”
“How is he?” Sam asked.
“Frankly, it’s an absolute miracle that he’s still alive. He had a thick King James I Bible in his tunic pocket and the book absorbed most of the impact of the bullets. The bullets didn’t even penetrate his skin, although he did break a few ribs and he has some pretty impressive nasty purple bruises on his chest. He also has a hairline fracture as a result of striking his head hard against the floor when he fell. He is also suffering from cracking headaches and he slips in and out of consciousness…”
“But he’ll live?” Sam interrupted abruptly.
“Oh yes, he’ll live all right, but it will be many months before he’s fully recovered.”
Sam slammed a fist into the palm of his hand and swore under his breath; which was rather a strange reaction, the receptionist thought.
“Would it be possible for us to leave these flowers for him?” Alan asked, flashing his most charming boyish smile, holding up a bouquet that he’d stolen from the cemetery on the way to the hospital.
“Yes, of course. You can leave them in a vase on the table outside his room.”
“Where is it, ma’am?”
“Room one hundred and one on the first floor.” The receptionist pointed to the staircase. “You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been very helpful,” Alan said as he touched the peak of his school cap.
“My pleasure, boys. Glad to have been of assistance,” the receptionist answered with a smile.
Sam mumbled something that sounded vaguely grateful under his breath.
Wasn’t the taller of the two young men a queer kettle of fish? the receptionist thought to herself as they both disappeared up the stairs.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Sam?” Alan hissed angrily as they mounted the stairs two at a time. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
“I can’t believe the bastard’s still alive. I shot him twice at point-blank range.” Sam mimicked the action with his two top right hand fingers.
“Mason was lucky, that’s all.”
“Mason has the luck of the devil.” Sam shook his head in frustration. “First Fairfax then St George’s Day. Well this time the treacherous bastard won’t get away. This time I’ll finish what I started…”
The boys stopped suddenly in their tracks, as if they had run into a brick wall. Two armed men stood outside room one hundred and one at a rigid position of attention. As they spotted the two boys, the two guards came to the en guard position with their bayonet fixed rifles held in out in front of them. “Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?” the leader challenged.
“Friends! Easy, boys!” Alan said with his palms held up in front of him. “We come in peace!”
“At ease!” the leader said. The two guards cradled their weapons in their hands as the two boys walked up to them.
“Who are you men?” Sam asked as he tried to identify the guards’ black battle dress uniforms. “You’re not Police or Specials…”
“We’re certainly not Specials, mate,” the younger guard answered. “The Specials have been disbanded across the whole of the country as a result of this St George’s Day Massacre of yours. Or haven’t you heard? You probably don’t get word as quickly, being way out here in the sticks,” the young man said in a broad cockney accent.
“So what are you then?” Sam tapped the elder guard’s armband with genuine curiosity.
“We’re Fascist Militia, son,” the older guard replied.
Sam reacted as if he had been slapped in the face. He whipped his hand away from the armband as if he had been burnt.
The older Fascist pointed at the initials on his armband BUFM. “British Union of Fascist
Militia,” he said proudly as he puffed out his be medalled chest.
“Prime Minister Joyce has sent us up here from London to take care of your Jewish Bolshevik terrorist problem, innit?” the young militiaman explained.
“Prime Minister Joyce?” Alan asked in confusion.
“Crikey, you country bumpkins are ignorant!” the young Fascist guffawed. “Don’t you know anything?”
“Deputy Prime Minister Joyce has taken over as PM following the recent murder of Prime Minister Mosley,” the older militiaman explained. “God rest his soul.” He crossed himself solemnly.
An Irish-American Nazi as Prime Minister? Alan could still remember the ridiculous broadcasts that Joyce had made from Berlin during the War. He always began his broadcasts with “This is Germany calling…” and spoke with a terrible hammy put-on upper class accent… Lord Haw Haw.... they used to laugh at him, and now he was Prime Minister? There was definitely something rotten in the state of Denmark.
“That’s… an interesting development,” Alan managed to say with a weak smile.
“But why are you here?” Sam asked.
“We’re here to guard Golden Boy,” the young Fascist gestured over his shoulder at the room behind him. “He’s become a regular pin-up poster boy for the Party.”
“But why?” Sam persisted. “He’s not even a member of the BUF.”
“That’s a mere technicality, son.” The older militiaman tapped his nose confidentially. “I’ve known Wily Willy since the early street fighting days of the Party when we used to fight the Jews and the Reds in the East End. The new Prime Minister is a master propaganda artist. He would make Goebbels look like a beginner. By the time that he’s finished with Captain Mason the whole country will believe that the first words to come out of the good captain’s mouth were ‘Sieg Heil’ instead of ‘Mummy!’”
The younger militiaman laughed uproariously at the older man’s words as if it was the funniest joke that he’d ever heard.
Alan could only smile weakly.
“Captain Mason is our trump card because he is the only British survivor of the Massacre…” the older Fascist continued.
Young Lions Roar Page 2
