“Cease fire!” Ulrich ordered.
The two surviving SS troopers pointed their weapons at the wounded Spaniards.
De Cervantes slowly crawled on his stomach towards Pizarro, leaving a trail of blood on the road like a wounded snail.
Ulrich turned around as he heard Gersdorff and the rest of the squad run up to his position. “Check the Spaniards, Scharführer,” Ulrich ordered. “Remember our orders: we want them alive if possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Obersturmführer Monat?” Ulrich shouted.
“Yes, sir?” Monat replied from the second road block.
“Check the MPs for survivors, and get some ambulances.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alfonso… Alfonso…” Pizarro rasped through blood-clenched teeth.
“Yes, Jefe,” De Cervantes replied as he coughed up a globule of blood. “I’m here.”
“Remember what we talked about?”
“Yes, Jefe,” De Cervantes nodded.
“Good man.” Pizarro smiled through a mouthful of blood. “It’s been a pleasure and a privilege, Alfonzo…”
“The pleasure has been all mine, Miguel.”
“Are you ready?”
De Cervantes smiled. “Like I’ve always told you, Jefe: I was born ready.”
“All right, Pedro,” Gersdorff said as he aimed his machine gun at the two wounded Spaniards. “Hang on; you’re going to be okay. Help is on its way.”
“Hey, Adolf,” De Cervantes said. “I’ve got a present for you. Come over here.”
Gersdorff was intrigued as he knelt down beside the dying Spaniard. “What is it, Pedro?”
De Cervantes put something in Gersdorff’s hand and wrapped the German’s fingers around it. The Spaniard grasped Pizarro’s bloody hands in his own, and they shouted together in unison at the top of their voices, “Viva La Legión! Viva España!”
Gersdorff opened his fingers. “Oh shit.”
Gersdorff barely had time to recognise that he was holding a grenade-pin in his hand when the bomb exploded. The blast instantly killed Gersdorff and De Cervantes and also detonated the half a dozen grenades that the Spaniard had been carrying in his jacket and trouser pockets. The secondary blasts also set off the grenades that Pizarro had been carrying in his pockets. The resulting explosion sent shrapnel flying in every direction and killed and wounded everyone standing within a radius of one hundred metres of the blast.
When the smoke and dust had finally settled, Hauptwachtmeister Bratge emerged phoenix-like from the bodies of his dead and dying MPs. His uniform was ripped and torn and was hanging off him in shredded strips of material. His helmet had been blasted off his head and blood was streaming down his dirt-encrusted face. Bratge walked as if he was in a trance and he stumbled from blackened body to blackened body searching for survivors, to no avail. All of the twenty or so SS stormtroopers were dead. They had gathered around the wounded Spaniards and they had all been killed in the initial blast when De Cervantes’s grenades had exploded. Bratge reached the spot where the two Spaniards had been lying. There was absolutely nothing left of their bodies except a giant black smear on the road. They had been completely vaporised when the ten grenades that they had been carrying had exploded, and there wasn’t enough left of their bodies to fill a shoebox.
A wounded MP stumbled up to Bratge. He was cradling a broken arm with his good hand. His mouth was opening and closing, but Bratge could not hear what he was saying. Slowly the ringing in his ears subsided, and the fog in Bratge’s head lifted.
“What now, Hauptwachtmeister?” the young MP asked. “What do we do now?”
Bratge put a reassuring hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “Check for survivors, Nietzsche, and administer immediate first aid; if any of our men are walking wounded then tell one of them to go and fetch help; find an ambulance.”
“Yes, Hauptwachtmeister,” the MP nodded.
“If you find any other walking wounded, tell them to go to headquarters and tell a forensic team to get here on the double.”
“Yes, sir.” The MP hobbled away to begin searching for survivors.
Bratge looked at the scene of utter death and destruction. It was like something out of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch: all of the cars surrounding the blast sight were on fire and were lying on their sides as if they had been knocked over by the hand of an angry giant. Charred carcasses of smoking and bleeding meat lay as far as the eye could see in various conditions of carbonisation, depending on how close the soldiers had been standing when the grenades had exploded. At least twenty and possibly closer to thirty German soldiers had either been killed or wounded in the gunfight and in the grenade explosions - and all for what? In order to capture two Spaniards. Bratge winced as he shook his head in frustration. He could not even be one hundred percent certain that the two suspects were actually Spaniards and he was no closer to discovering why they had tried to blow up the King Alfred Hotel. It was all idle speculation. Bratge suddenly stopped in his tracks. Something was embedded in the wall by the entrance to the Spaniard’s apartment block. Bratge found himself drawn towards the flashing and twinkling object as if he was a moth drawn to a flame. He touched the object, and quickly snatched his fingers away and stuck them in his mouth. The object was red-hot. Bratge tore a strip of material from his ripped and ragged uniform and wrapped a length of cloth around his fingers. He grasped the end of the object and slowly but surely pulled it out of the stonework where it had been impaled. A smile broke out over Bratge’s cracked and bloody lips as he examined the bent, burnt and twisted piece of metal. “The plot thickens,” he said to himself.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Sturmbannführer: you fully deserve your nickname of The Cat.” Brigadeführer Herold shook his head in awe and amazement. “I don’t know how you do it, Ulrich.”
“Just lucky, I guess, Brigadeführer.” Ulrich shrugged his shoulders bashfully. He winced as a sharp jab of pain stabbed through his bandaged head. He had suffered concussion when the force of the grenade explosions had thrown him like a rag doll against a brick wall. Only the fact that he been wearing his helmet had prevented him from suffering severe brain damage. The helmet may well have saved his life.
“And as for you, Obersturmführer Monat; if I was a betting man I’d wager good money that if you had not been with The Cat here you would be a dead man now, and you would be lying alongside the bodies of your unfortunate soldiers in the morgue.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second, sir,” Monat agreed from his bed, where he also sat with a bandage wrapped around his head.
“I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to capture the suspects alive, sir,” Ulrich apologised with a bowed head.
Herold waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Sturmbannführer: the important thing is that you didn’t let the army capture them either.”
“So what happens now, sir?” Ulrich asked.
“Well the trail has run cold: the army has no proof that the bombers were Spanish and there is no connection between the bombers, the Spanish and our men.”
“So… who do we say was to blame for the bombing of the Hotel, sir?”
Herold shrugged his shoulders as if he hadn’t really thought about it. “The Resistance, of course. In fact I only issued orders this morning for the arrest and execution of two hundred hostages,” Herold said matter-of-factly.
“Two hundred hostages, sir?” Ulrich repeated in horror.
Herold put his hands up in mock protest. “I know, Ulrich, I know. The present rate of exchange is that we execute one hundred hostages for every German soldier who is killed, but twenty of our men were killed and twenty Wehrmacht soldiers were killed and wounded. That makes forty German casualties, and if you do the maths you will soon calculate that that means four thousand Hereward hostages should be executed.” Herold laughed. “There are simply not enough hostages available! After all, I don’t want to depopulate the whole of Hereward. The Führer wants a living, breathing to
wn when he comes to visit. Who would do all of the work for us if we kill all of the people? So I thought that as a compromise I would execute two hundred hostages in exchange for the deaths of our men.” Herold shrugged his shoulders again indifferently and scratched his head. “I don’t know; maybe I’m going soft in my old age. I’m going to leave the Army to deal with the issue of their dead and wounded as they see fit.”
Herold looked at Ulrich, who looked as if he had just been told that his mother had died. “You disagree, Sturmbannführer? You think that we should go ahead and execute four thousand hostages?”
“No, sir,” Ulrich shook his head. “It’s just that we know that the Resistance didn’t blow up the hotel. The Spanish did it.”
“Spaniards did it, as you said before, not the Spanish. And anyway, that is all speculation, Sturmbannführer. Fascists or Republicans, official or unofficial, political or personal, none of that matters now. All that matters if that this bomb explosion gives us an ideal opportunity, excuse and reason to tighten the screws on the English and remind them once again who’s boss.” Herold mimicked screwing on the lid of a jar with his hands.
Ulrich was speechless with rage and fury, but was compos mentis enough to realise that on this occasion discretion was the better part of valour.
“I thought it rather fitting that I should use men from your regiment to carry out the arrest and executions, Ulrich.” Herold smiled a crocodile smile.
“Thank you, sir. It’s an honour, Brigadeführer,” Ulrich replied haltingly.
“Good.” Herold slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Then that’s settled then. Get well soon, boys. I need both of you in tip-top condition for the invasion of Scotland.”
“So it’s coming then, sir?” Monat’s eyes lit up with boyish enthusiasm. “We’re finally going to finish off Churchill once and for all?”
“Yes, Obersturmführer: it’s coming sooner than you think. So get well soon. Germany needs all of her sons fit and well for the coming struggle.” Herold pointed both of his forefingers at his two wounded officers.
“Yes, sir!” both men answered in unison.
“Heil Hitler!” Herold saluted. “Anything you need, boys, tell the sentries, all right?”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir. Heil Hitler!” Ulrich replied.
Herold left the room.
Monat thumped his chest with like a gorilla. “The invasion of Scotland! About bloody time! What do you think about that, Sturmbannführer?”
“What do I think, Monat?” Ulrich looked at him blankly. “The wheel turns…”
Chapter Nine
“Alan can help us, Papa,” Aurora said earnestly.
“Alan?” Major Mendoza shook his head. “Alan is just a child, Aurora. How on earth can he help us?”
“Alan is… well, Alan is… experienced, Papa,” Aurora said cryptically.
“You mean that he’s killed Germans before?” Mendoza asked bluntly.
“Well, I…”
“Aurora, my butterfly, virtually every male over the age of fourteen who lives in Hereward was in the Home Guard and fought the Germans during the invasion, or if they were too old then they fought them in the last war. Every Tom, Dick and Harry in Hereward has killed Germans.” Mendoza was busy stripping, cleaning and oiling his Luger pistol.
Aurora said nothing.
“Or is it something else? Is Alan in the Resistance?”
Aurora blushed.
“It’s all right, Aurora.” Mendoza put down his pistol and ruffled his daughter’s hair affectionately. “It’s all right, don’t worry, my butterfly. I’m not going to turn Alan in to the Germans. God knows we need all of the help that we can get.”
“So Sergeant Borghese and the others are all dead?” Aurora asked through tear-filled eyes.
“Yes, my sweet,” Mendoza nodded his head. “I’m afraid that Francisco and the other Legiónaries are all dead.”
“How can you be so sure, Papa?”
“You know about the gun fight and the explosion on Queen Alexandra Street?”
“Yes, Papa, of course. The firing woke me up in the morning just as it woke up half of Hereward. But the Germans blamed the fighting on the Resistance.”
“Yes, of course they did. But it wasn’t the Resistance; it was Francisco’s men.”
“Do you know the names of the dead Legiónaries, Papa?”
Mendoza shook his head. “No, I don’t, my little butterfly. All I know is that the embassy sent up three Legiónaries who were all from the XVIIth Bandera, my old regiment.”
“Do you think that the Germans know that the dead men were Legiónaries?”
“I sincerely hope not, Aurora, or else we are in even worse trouble and we may have to leave Hereward in a hurry. It will be some time before the embassy can send reinforcements to protect us.”
“Alan will be able to help us escape, Papa,” Aurora asserted confidently.
“Really? You have a lot of confidence in this boy, Aurora,” Mendoza said with raised eyebrows.
“You would understand if you met him, Papa.”
“Then perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall…” Mendoza said thoughtfully.
“The suspects were from the XVIIth Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión, sir,” Hauptwachtmeister Bratge stated confidently.
“You seem very sure of yourself, Hauptwachtmeister. How do you know?” General-Major von Schnakenberg asked curiously.
“Because I found this, sir.” Bratge stepped forward and placed an object on von Schnakenberg’s desk.
Von Schnakenberg picked up the torn and jagged object and read aloud the writing engraved on the metal: Miguel Pizarro, Corporal, 880427, XVIIth Bandera, Legión Extranjero. The Spanish Foreign Legión. Von Schnakenberg looked up at Bratge with awe and wonder. “How the hell did you find this dog tag in that fiery inferno, Hauptwachtmeister? Queen Alexandra Street looked like an abattoir.”
Bratge shrugged his shoulders and winced as a sharp stab of pain lanced across his shoulder blades. He had still not fully recovered from the Spanish grenade blasts. “I just got lucky I guess, sir.” Bratge smiled.
“Well, I’m very impressed, Hauptwachtmeister, but what does it all mean?”
“Well, I checked the service records of all the men who were killed or wounded in the King Alfred Hotel bomb, sir, and Hauptsturmführer Abetz and Scharführers Witzleben, Dollmann, Unger and Kophamel of the SS all served in Spain with the Condor Legión during the civil war - but only Kophamel had any contact with the XVIIth Bandera. They both fought in the Battle of the Ebro River, sir, in Catalonia in ’38.”
“The Legiónaries are tough hombres, Hauptwachtmeister.” Von Schnakenberg nodded his head. “I served alongside them with the Condor Legión during the Battle for Madrid.”
“That’s not all, sir,” Bratge continued. “Kophamel’s present company commander, Hauptsturmführer Manfred von Stein, was his platoon commander at the Battle of the River Ebro and both men were wounded. Von Stein’s entire unit was wiped out in the battle, sir.”
Von Schnakenberg’s brows furrowed in confusion. “That’s odd, Hauptwachtmeister - apart from the air crew, the role of the Condor Legión was largely advisory, not combative. It was very unusual for German personnel to take part in actual fighting.”
“Well, the records show that von Stein’s entire unit was wiped out, and von Stein and Kophamel suffered very severe injuries and were lucky to escape with their lives, sir.”
Von Schnakenberg nodded his head.
“There’s something else, sir.” Bratge examined his notes. “The Spanish Military Attaché here in Hereward, Major Juan Mendoza, is also from the XVIIth Bandera and served as a Captain at the Battle of the River Ebro…”
“Don’t tell me, Hauptwachtmeister: Corporal Pizarro served under Mendoza at the Battle…”
“As did the two other Legiónaries that the Spanish Embassy has notified are missing from their London embassy guard; Privates De Cervantes and Ramirez. Also, Mendoza’s pers
onal bodyguard Sergeant Borghese is missing, sir, and the good Major has made an urgent request for Legiónaries to be dispatched as soon as is humanely possible to reinforce the consulate guard.”
“So Mendoza is in it up to his neck as well, then?”
“It looks like it, sir,” Bratge answered with a nod.
“What a bloody mess.” Von Schnakenberg swivelled his chair and looked out of the window. “There’s some sort of vendetta going on in Hereward, Hauptwachtmeister, and unfortunately the army seems to be stuck in the middle of it. The Spanish always did like a blood feud. Well, I want to find out what the bloody hell it’s all about, and I want to stop it. I don’t want the Spanish and the SS as well as us and the Resistance fighting it out in the streets of Hereward.”
Bratge coughed into his hand. “Sir, should we inform our SS colleagues of our findings?”
Von Schnakenberg swivelled his chair back to face Bratge and thought for a moment before answering. “No. I don’t think so, Hauptwachtmeister. I don’t think that it’s necessary to involve our SS brethren at this stage. I think that it’s for the best if we keep this information to ourselves for the moment, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep digging, Hauptwachtmeister. I want more dirt. But a job well done so far. I’m very impressed. Dismissed!”
Bratge saluted, about turned, and marched smartly out of von Schnakenberg’s office.
“Are you sure that this is a good idea, Al?” Sam asked with concern. “Have you really thought this through? Because if you’re wrong, then we’re going to find ourselves in a whole world of trouble.”
Alan shrugged his shoulders as he started to strip and clean his Luger pistol. “Aurora is already in a world of trouble, Sam. She needs my help and that’s all there is to it. She and Major Mendoza are all alone here in Hereward and it may be many days or even weeks before reinforcements arrive. In the meantime she and her father are in mortal danger from the SS so I’m going to help them.” Alan looked at his friend and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We’ve been best mates for a long time, Sam, and if you don’t think that Aurora’s worth the risk then I understand. No hard feelings. You just walk away and I’ll protect her by myself.”
Young Lions Roar Page 11
