Alan’s eyebrows rose up at the temerity of the question. “I don’t see how he can, sir. Not with the whole of Europe stacked against him. Spanish Fascist volunteers and Italian troops have already arrived to take part in the invasion of Scotland. I wouldn’t be surprised if French Fascist volunteers are also on the way. They’ll all want a piece of the pie when Hitler carves up our Empire.”
Mason shook his head. “ That’s where you’re wrong, Sam: the Führer has promised the Prime Minister that if British troops take part in the invasion of Scotland then he will guarantee that no British territory will be handed over to any other countries…”
“Apart from former German territories…” Alan interrupted.
“Well, yes, of course,” Mason coughed into his hand. “It seems only fair and reasonable that former German colonies stolen from her at the end of the First World War should be restored to her. Even Lloyd George, in retrospect, thought that the terms of the Treaty of Versailles were too harsh towards Germany.”
“So Germany won’t touch the British Empire apart from former German territory, sir?”
“Scout’s honour, Alan,” Mason promised.
Alan thought for a moment before answering. “Well, if it’s good enough for you, then it’s good enough for me, sir.” Alan flashed his most charming schoolboy smile.
“Glad to have you on board.” Mason smiled. “Has Sam considered the consequences of his decision?”
Alan laughed. “That’s strange, sir, because Sam asked me to ask you the very same question.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Section at fifty yards, to your front, rapid FIRE!”
There was a sudden salvo of shots that shredded the targets.
After about forty-five seconds there was a shouted chorus of “Magazine!” as the marksmen ran out of rounds and changed their magazines.
Leon checked his watch and after another fifteen or so seconds he shouted, “Cease fire! Apply safety catches! Make safe!” There was a sound of bolts being drawn back as the marksmen ejected any spare rounds, which they caught in their hands. The three assistants standing behind the marksmen knelt down and examined the rifle chambers that were all now empty of rounds. Each of the assistants raised their right hands and shouted, “Clear!”
Leon nodded his head. “Excellent! Stand up! Examine the targets!”
The three marksmen leapt to their feet, placed their rifles on the ground, and started to walk towards their targets.
“When the Kaiser’s Army first encountered the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium, they were horrified to discover that the BEF was armed with hundreds of machine guns. They came to that conclusion because the BEF mowed the Huns down by the hundred and by the thousands. Except that the Huns were wrong: the BEF was not armed with hundreds of machine guns, they were armed with tens of thousands of these.” Leon held up a rifle, “A .303 Lee Enfield rifle, the standard issue rifle of the British Army. The reason why the Huns thought that we were armed with hundreds of machine guns was because our marksmanship was so accurate and because the British soldier is trained to fire fifteen rounds per minute. We fired so accurately and so fast that the Huns thought that we were armed with machine guns, but we weren’t, we were armed with the humble rifle.” Leon puffed out his chest with pride. “I know because I was there.”
The marksmen and their assistants had stopped walking in order to listen to Leon’s story.
“And that’s why we’re here, Mr Leon,” Anne Mair said. “So that you can teach us how to kill Huns as quickly as possible by the hundred and by the thousand.”
“That’s my girl, Anne.” Leon smiled. “And God willing, we will.”
Leon examined each of the targets in turn. He and his two sons had built three scarecrows, which were all now dressed as German soldiers. Leon, Bob and Russ had chosen the most rough and ragged sets of uniform that they could salvage from the collection of clothes that they had stripped from the bodies of the dead Germans that they had killed in the previous six weeks. The boys had even managed to find a few dented helmets, which had definitely seen better days. However, the helmets did complete the look and when they were placed on top of the heads at a rakish angle they did give the scarecrows an extra degree of authenticity and a certain je ne sais quoi.
Leon nodded his head in admiration. “Not bad, not bad at all. Actually quite good.” He looked at Anne. “A three inch group at fifty yards. Where did you learn to shoot?”
Anne’s face beamed with pride. “On my uncle’s farm, Mr Leon, in Frampton before the… before the…” Anne’s eyes welled up with tears.
Leon put a fatherly arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. “It’s all right, Anne, it’s all right. It’s good to cry, let it all out.”
“I’m all right, Mr Leon.” Anne wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m all right. Really I am. It’s just that sometimes I feel so weak and helpless. I really want to hurt those Nazi bastards!” Anne punched a fist into the palm of her hand.
“I promise you, Anne, as God is my witness, that we will pay those murdering Nazi bastards back for all of the pain and suffering that they have inflicted on you and on all of our people.”
Anne nodded in agreement as Bob Leon walked over to comfort her.
Leon examined the next target with awe and wonder. “Now this, now this is really astounding!” Leon’s eyes bulged in amazement. “A two inch group at fifty yards. Where did you learn to shoot, Aurora?”
Aurora Mendoza smiled like a cat that had got the cream. “On my grandfather’s estate, Mr Leon, before the Civil War.”
“Well, this is really very impressive.” Leon fingered the bullet holes in the scarecrow’s uniform again. “Well, done, keep it up.”
Leon walked over to the third target. He smiled to himself and chuckled. “Alice, I take it that you did not have the chance to practise either on your uncle’s farm or on your grandfather’s estate?”
“Mr Leon, has no one ever told you that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?” Alice asked.
Leon laughed again and shook his head in amusement. “Several times, Alice. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to work on your marksmanship.” Leon looked at the target again. There were only five bullet holes and they were scattered randomly all over the scarecrow from his helmet to his jackboots.
“Practise makes perfect,” Alice said.
“That’s the spirit, Alice! Now, let’s move on to practising with the Schmessier submachine gun…”
“Father!” Russ Leon burst into the shed which served as a makeshift shooting range. “There’s a German patrol coming! They must’ve heard the shots!”
“Strength?” Leon asked as made his rifle ready, ramming his bolt forward and forcing a round into the chamber.
“One patrol car with a lorry, father,” Russ replied.
“Christ!” Leon swore. “There may be as many as a full platoon…”
“Or as few as a squad,” Alan interrupted.
“Let’s hope that it’s the latter, then!” Leon said grimly. “You know the drill, people! To your positions!”
Leon hurriedly walked over to his son and put his hand on his shoulder. “Now Russ, it is absolutely vital that you lure them all into the shed at the same time. Because if they split up and search the farm separately then there’s absolutely no chance that we’ll be able to kill them all. We have to kill them all at once or else they’ll hunt us down like dogs.”
“How will I manage to lure them all into the shed?” Russ asked anxiously.
Leon’s eyes lit up as he found a sudden source of inspiration. “This is how…”
Obersturmführer Monat stepped out of the car as his driver applied the hand brake. A young man wearing mud and dirt-stained dungarees stood in front of him. Monat’s lips curled up in distaste and his nostrils flared instinctively as the smell of pig shit hit him like a tidal wave. He hurriedly extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose to disguise the noxious aroma.
He realised with revulsion that the young farmer’s filthy dungarees were probably encrusted with pig shit as well.
“Good morning, Obersturmführer. What can I do for you, sir?” The young man asked cheerily as he wiped his dirty hands on his dung stained dungarees. He watched a sergeant and driver get out of the patrol car and stand behind the officer.
Monat was pleasantly surprised to discover that the young man spoke surprisingly good schoolboy German. It just proved that appearances could be deceptive. “Just a routine patrol, young man.” Monat smiled as he answered. “And your name is…?”
“Leon, Obersturmführer. Russell Leon, sir,” Russ answered as the soldiers piled out of the back of the lorry.
“Not the Leon of ‘Leon’s Organic Pig Farm?’” Monat asked with raised eyebrows.
“The very same, sir,” Russ answered. He watched a squad of ten SS stormtroopers assemble in two ranks behind their officer.
Monat was amused to see that the young man had puffed out his chest with pride as he answered. “And you are Leon?”
“No, sir.” Russ laughed. “That’s my father, Obersturmführer.” Thirteen Nazis in total.
“And where is your father, Russell?”
“Call me ‘Russ,’ sir.” Russ smiled. “All of my friends do.”
“All right… Russ. Where is your father?”
“He’s somewhere on the farm, sir. He’s probably in the shed.” Russ pointed over his shoulder. Seven inside the shed, plus me. Eight in total.
Monat turned around to look at his assembled men. “Scharführer Blucher, where the bloody hell is Scharführer von Clausewitz? I thought that he was right behind us.”
Blucher turned around and looked back up the road which led out of the farm. He turned back to face Monat and shrugged his shoulders. “Von Clausewitz was right behind us, sir. Maybe his lorry had a flat tyre. I’m sure that he’ll catch up with us very soon.”
Russ’s German wasn’t fluent enough to understand everything that Monat had said to Blucher.
“Oh well, we’ll just have to make do without him. I’m sure that we have enough men to search this farm for hidden caches of Resistance weapons.” Monat turned around to face the young farmer. “We’re going to search the farm, Russ. Just a routine search. Nothing to worry about. We’ll be gone before you know it.” Monat turned and barked an order over his shoulder.
Russ’s eyes suddenly lit up with inspiration. “Sir, would you like a personal tour? Would you like to find out where the pies come from? Would you like to see the pigs?”
Not really, Monat thought to himself.
“I’m sure that my father would be able to offer mate’s rates, sir.” Russ snapped to a position of attention. “I would like to offer you and your men pork pies at cost price, sir.”
“That’s very kind of you, Russ,” Monat smiled.
“It would be a pleasure and a privilege, sir.” Russ bowed.
“All right.” Monat barked another order over his shoulder at his men.
Russ smiled as he saw the stormtroopers sling their rifles over their shoulders. They weren’t expecting any trouble.
“Lay on, MacDuff.” Monat gestured towards the shed with his hand.
“You’re a fan of Shakespeare, I see, sir,” Russ said as he led the way.
Monat laughed. “Schoolboy English lessons. And I see that you’ve had some military training?” Monat asked casually.
Russ laughed. “Hardly, sir. Officer’s Training Corps at St John’s, sir…”
“And Home Guard as well, no doubt?” Monat asked rhetorically.
“Every male around here with a pulse has served in the Home Guard, sir.”
“Fair enough.” Monat shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. Never the less, it was still worth filing away that particular piece of news for future reference. You could never tell when tit bits of information could come in useful. “And you must tell me, Russ, what is the secret of your exceedingly good pork pies?”
Russ put his filthy fore finger to his lips. “Trade secret, sir. I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”
Monat laughed.
“Here we are, sir. The shed.” Russ opened the door for Monat. “After you, sir. My father will be inside.”
“Thank you, Russ.” Monat turned around to face his soldiers. “I hope that you’ve brought your wallets, men. Scharführer von Clausewitz and his men will be green with envy when we return home with the pies.”
Monat’s men cheered and started to extract their wallets from their battle dress trouser pockets. They thanked Russ and followed their officer into the shed.
Scharführer von Clausewitz was at that very moment effing and jeffing and cursing to high heaven. His lorry had indeed suffered a punctured tyre as Blucher had predicted. However, when the driver had fetched the spare tyre he had discovered that the ‘spare’ also had a puncture. The lorry must have suffered a punctured tyre in the past and when the puncture had been replaced with the spare tyre the punctured tyre had not been replaced with a new one. Von Clausewitz cursed the powers that be again. They had decided that, rather than having a designated lorry for each unit, patrols had to make do with whichever one was available. What that meant was that the unit that used the lorry did not care what condition they left it in when they returned it, as long as the lorry was in a satisfactory state when they themselves used it. An abdication of responsibility.
Von Clausewitz looked at his wristwatch. He knew exactly where he was as he had driven down this road many times in the past; he was about a kilometre and a half from the farm or a fifteen minutes’ walk. He knew that he had to get to Obersturmführer Monat as quickly as possible because if he did not then it might jeopardise the success of the mission. Von Clausewitz also knew that Monat would also probably tear strips off him for not having checked that the lorry had had a spare tyre. He was not looking forward to that.
“Come on, lads!” Von Clausewitz shouted over his shoulder. “This isn’t a Sunday school outing! Put your back into it!”
He was answered with a dramatic chorus of groans.
“It’s rather dark and gloomy in here, Russ. I can’t see your father. Where did you say that he is?” Monat asked.
Russ followed the last soldier into the shed and closed the door. “He’s probably at the far end, sir.”
Monat started walking.
“Obersturmführer, do you still want to know what the secret ingredient in our pies is?”
“Yes,” Monat answered as a sudden tingling began at the back of his spine.
“You!” Russ suddenly dropped to the ground.
“Open fire!” a voice ordered.
Three MG42 machine guns opened fire at point-blank range and caught the Germans in a cross fire. The bullets scythed into the bunched up stormtroopers and cut them down like sheaves of corn. The Nazis died with a look of utter shock and surprise on their faces. None of them even had a chance to unsling their weapons, never mind cock them and return fire. Most of them were still holding their open wallets when they died. Torn and tattered banknotes were scattered all over the bloody shed floor.
“Cease fire!” Leon bellowed. “Sam and Alan, take care of any wounded.”
Sam flashed a wolflike grin and climbed over the hay bale wall that ran down the entire length of the shed. The wall was two bales high and two bales thick and had proved to be a crude, but effective, bulletproof barrier. The wall had also helped to prevent some of the sound of the shooting from escaping from the shed. Not enough of the sound, apparently. What other reasonable explanation could there be for the sudden arrival of the German patrol? An identical hay bale wall also ran down the length of the other parallel wall and a six hay bale high, three hay bale thick bullet proof barrier stretched across the width of the shed at the far end.
Alan covered Sam with his finger resting on the trigger of his Schmessier. Sam slung his submachine gun onto his shoulder and put his right hand behind his back and took out his Luger pistol from underneath
his trouser waistband. He quickly cocked the weapon and flicked off the safety catch. Whenever Sam spotted any sign of life he fired a single bullet into the wounded Nazi’s head, administering the coup de grace. He was very much aware that Leon wanted to salvage as many items of German uniform as possible in case they needed to disguise themselves as Nazi soldiers in the near future. Leon did not want blood, bones and brains ruining his precious uniforms. Sam was also very expeditious with his use of ammunition as they needed to save their ammunition for future missions, so he used a single shot Luger pistol to finish off the Germans, rather than the Schmessier which fired on automatic only.
“Clear!” Sam shouted when he was certain that every single Nazi stormtrooper was well and truly as dead as a dodo.
“All right, folks. You know the drill. Collect any weapons, ammunition and any equipment that we can use and store then in the Armoury with the rest of the gear. Strip the Huns and collect any uniforms that aren’t too badly ripped or blood-soaked and dump them in the kitchen. We’ll wash them later. Throw any uniforms that we can’t use into the boiler furnace.” Leon ordered. “Oh yes, remember to collect the identification tags.”
“Mr Leon, what do you use the Hun’s identification tags for?” Aurora asked.
“Forgive me, Aurora.” Leon put his hand to his head. “I forgot that you’re new to this game. I haven’t thought it through yet, but I was thinking about possible psychological warfare.”
“Psychological warfare?” Aurora asked with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, Aurora. We have the Hun’s identification tags and their pay books that contain their home addresses. I thought about posting their pay books back to their mothers with their identification tags and their teeth enclosed.”
“Their… their teeth?” Aurora asked.
“Yes, Aurora. The pigs shit them out after they’ve eaten the dead Huns. How else do you think that I keep my pigs supplied with a constant source of food?” Leon answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Young Lions Roar Page 18
