Offspring

by Stan Mason

  ‘Have you any information concerning a man called Jack Berg after the attack on Strogoff’s fortress?’ I asked, still not fully understanding the nature of the Operation’s Room.

  ‘A report will be submitted to us later,’ confirmed the Captain sombrely. ‘It was a surprise attack against troops which had received only elementary training, so casualties ought to be light.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I ventured impatiently, ‘what’s going to happen here today? Why are we watching this map of Europe?’

  The Prime Minister looked at me as though I ought to have known better than to ask such a question, ‘We can no longer tolerate the evil elements in Europe and those who control International Three Thousand for their own purpose. A United States of Europe would be a wonderful event in the history of mankind if it were negotiated successfully... although I believe it will take a millennium before it can be achieved properly. It’s a concept in which we all believe but we have to allow the development to take place in its own time. The foundation has already been established. It’s taken us since 1963, the Treaty of Rome, to get to this point. How can a group of people dare think they can fulfil the plan by the first of June, two thousand and twelve! With regard to the sons and grandsons of the Nazis who wish to take control, well the situation by necessity must be corrected without delay.’

  ‘But how can you deal with all those people at once and hold them for questioning and trial?’ I asked naively, without giving the matter too much thought. ‘The task is practically impossible! Not only that, but it might attract support for a United States of Europe, in which case the general public would be out of accord with your government’s policies.’

  ‘Exactly!’ replied Captain Watson, coming to the aid of his superior. ‘We can’t afford to publicise the facts. The Prime Minister had a secret meeting this morning with the Cabinet where a unanimous decision was made to seek out and destroy... as we did with Strogoff!’

  ‘Seek out and destroy?’ I turned my head to stare at both of them. ‘Do you mean you’ve sent out squads... like the SAS... to hunt down the leading Nazis and their families, to assassinate them where they are.’

  ‘Can you suggest another way to deal with the problem?’ asked the Captain coldly. ‘We’re willing to listen to any reasonable suggestions.’

  I had to admit I had no clever solution, but then it wasn’t really up to me to decide what needed to be done. If Berg had been here, he would have danced with joy at the co-ordinated effort being made to fulfil his life’s work. Nonetheless, killing people in cold blood didn’t appeal to me at all. ‘What about the families of Nazi or military officers who have no intention of pursuing the Nazi cause? What if they’re listed on the microfilm? You’ll be killing innocent people!’

  ‘Really?’ responded the Captain, with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. ‘I’d like to reply to that argument on a personal basis, i.e. nothing to do with rank, uniform or politics, if I may. Firstly, as a Jew who’s family was murdered by these butchers in two different concentration camps, I can tell you with conviction that the only good Nazi is a dead one! Secondly, if you examine the history books and read how they experimented on defenceless human-beings, tortured them and murdered them... and we’re talking of a total of some eight or nine million people... you’ll realise that if we don’t act immediately the same thing will happen again... perhaps on an even more grotesque scale. They want to turn Europe into a Fascist state and maintain full control for themselves. I think my conscience can bear the responsibility of the demise of a few descendants of such a race if my efforts save the world from despotic rule and millions of deaths in the future.’

  ‘Come now, Captain Watson,’ scolded the Prime Minister, although his reproach was not meant to be real. ‘Aren’t you being a little harsh on our capable ally here? He’s a newspaper reporter... not Jewish... and not a military man. It’s part of his job to safeguard the public interest... to tell them what’s going on.’

  ‘Exactly so, Prime Minister,’ declared the Captain. ‘That’s why I’m explaining it to him in such detail!’

  ‘I can’t report a story of such unbelievable depths to an unsuspecting public!’ I complained. ‘It wouldn’t be acceptable. Anyway, you’d put a “D” notice on it to prevent it from being published.’

  The Prime Minister nodded slowly. ‘I’m afraid the true story would run counter to the public interest. If people learned the Nazis intended to rise within our midst by the time Die Stunde arrived, in two thousand and fifteen., It would be an excellent advertising campaign influencing many people to support, if not join, International Three Thousand. The situation would breed on itself, especially as many would fail to realise the evil side of the development, ignoring the fact they would lose their freedom and their rights as citizens under the new regime. We would play directly into the hands of those enemies we hope to destroy. Indeed, Mr. Savage, we have no option but to issue “D” notices to your newspaper and all the other newspapers for that matter, to prevent publication of the story at the present time.’

  I could imagine Ted Flanders in his office dancing with rage as he puffed deeply on one of his pungent cigars. He would demand to see me the moment I returned, swearing and ranting in his usual manner, insisting I find an angle by which he could print the story. In the present circumstances, there was little I could say or do... and even less to write! At that moment, one of the telephones rang and everyone waited expectantly with baited breath.

  ‘It’s the Belgian authorities,’ related a female army sergeant answering the call, holding the receiver tightly to her ear. ‘Belgian storm-troops are operating in five major Belgian cities... Brussels, Antwerp, Liege, Bruges and Mons.’

  Two of the service staff in the centre of the room moved wooden black arrows around the board with their croupier rods to the location of the towns.

  ‘It all starts now,’ declared the Prime Minister, as though sitting on a bench at the edge of a football pitch to watch a cup-tie. ‘I had a long conversation with an official called Hendrickx in Brussels this morning. He seemed pretty keen to join in the action.’

  The shock of the cold-bloodedness of the operation still chilled my veins. Then I pulled myself together to reason with reality. It wasn’t possible to take sides in this issue, or to judge with fairness. We had entered into a war during a period of peace where, at some time or another, there had to be casualties and death. It was them or us... and they couldn’t be allowed to win. Therefore, like it or not, the decision taken by the authorities had to be decisive under the circumstances... even if it was horrendous and savage.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked Captain Watson, whose eyes began to gleam at the commencement of hostilities, ‘how many people are involved roughly in each country, and how are the storm troops, police, or the military going to deal with them?’

  ‘Well you’ve put your finger right on the button, Mr. Savage,’ he replied candidly. ‘We assess there are about five thousand people in each country descended directly from Nazis. Even if split into five or six towns, the numbers are relatively large. The Belgians have two old disused prisons and a detention centre, all of which are located deep into the countryside. They’re using ambulances, police vehicles, and military transport to take them there. Each person will be interrogated carefully to determine their background, ideals, and so on. But we really know the key people involved. However, you must bear in mind that many will have slipped the net before we get to them... very much like the situation at the end of World War Two when many Nazi criminals managed to escape. We recognise it’s impossible to achieve a one hundred per cent success rate. It’s a fact of life. What we intend to do is to put Die Stunde back fifty years or more.’

  ‘It sounds as though you’re doing the same thing to them as they did to the Jews in World War Two!’ I retorted. ‘Carrying them off without giving them a reason!’

  The Captain bridled at the re
mark but he kept his cool. ‘I don’t think so, sir. You see, the Jews were the scapegoats of the Nazis who turned the whole German nation against them. They had their shops, their jobs, their public appointments, and their possessions seized from them without reason. Each one was forced to wear a yellow Star of David as a sign that he or she was inferior; a sub-classified citizen to be mocked or bullied at anyone’s whim. We’re speaking of educated people in business and commerce, academics, intellectuals, and the like. We’re talking of a race of people, totally innocent of any crime, whom the Nazis tried to eliminate without mercy. The annihilation of a race of people on earth! No, Mr. Savage, this is not the same thing at all! These people are the bad seed. Their history proves them to be a warring nation with a strong taste for world domination. They have this desire racing through their blood like a virus. In modern times, a soft-hearted world forgave them for the butchery in World War One. Millions of people died yet still the Germans were forgiven. And what happened? They started another world war, without provocation, and killed millions more. Now they want to take over Europe in its current throes. How long can we go on letting them perpetrate these crimes before someone cries out: “Enough!”’

  He was a tough man to quarrel with because he felt such conviction. ‘The saddest thing of all,’ I responded, retreating somewhat into my shell, ‘is that not all the countries in the United Nations War Crimes Commission will play ball. Australia agreed to let Israel examine their files and so has China. Their co-operation is more of a token of willingness than anything else. But the United States, New Zealand, Poland, the factions which make up Yugoslavia, and Britain... what about them?’

  ‘You’ve no need to concern yourself about Britain,’ replied the Captain firmly. ‘We’ve been weeding our own garden in the past without fuss or direction from the Press or other watchful eyes. We considered it was far better that way. But the problem is not only in Europe. There are Nazis hiding in comparative safety in many South American countries, as well as in South Africa. The Israelis have agents there but it’s hard work finding the real culprits. They’ve hidden themselves away, adopting different identities which remain well-guarded by bribes to certain officials in the respective countries. If I read your mind correctly, there’s no way anyone can flush them out to end the threat once and for all. They teach their children and grandchildren the ways of national socialism... the Nazi ways. I fear we shall have to learn to live with the problem for ever!’

  The tactics employed by the authorities against the bad seed nauseated me, but I liked Captain Watson’s reply even less. The world had defeated the belligerent Germans twice during the first half of the twentieth century. It had been divided into two separate countries, managed by different political regimes, and the Nazis had fled for their lives to different countries throughout the world. And yet here we were still fighting to keep them at bay... fearing for the safety of our children and grandchildren in the future. Why? Because of an element of people with a national spirit of overgrown proportions and Fascist ideals who would never stop until they ruled the world! Worse still, we helped them by allowing reunification of Germany to take place. Another telephone rang, and the call was answered instantly by an eager member of the Royal Air Force.

  ‘France!’ he called out. ‘The French police have descended on Paris, Marseilles, Lyon, Toulouse and Bordeaux!’

  The croupiers were back in action again, moving the black arrows across the table towards the respective cities, but I was not inspired by the action. Certainly the exercise was likely to set Die Stunde back for a while... perhaps even fifty years... but for me it wasn’t enough. No one could rest easily until every Nazi, and the family of every Nazi, was removed from the face of the earth... otherwise the whole world would remain under threat for eternity, or at least until the Nazis had achieved world domination! Suddenly, the whole issue came into perspective as the words of Captain Watson reached deeply into my mind. The Nazis had escaped to many countries to avoid paying the penalty for their cruelty to mankind, and yet here we were still fighting for our lives and the freedom of our future against them. They had sold off all the treasures looted during the war and now had substantial funds to support them in any action they wished to take. It was incredible but true! I stood up with the intention of leaving, becoming tired of the proceedings.

  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister,’ I apologised, ‘But I haven’t the stomach for this sort of thing. I leave you to your own devices.’

  To his surprise, I walked towards the door. ‘I would have liked to arrange for some award to be given to you for your efforts,’ he called out, ‘but in view of the nature of the situation I’m sure you’ll understand my reluctance to do so.’

  I nodded with a sad expression on my face, although I couldn’t really have cared less about an award or medal. I left with Captain Watson racing after me to ensure I reached the front door of the House of Commons safely. Once away from the building, I stood watching the Thames flow swiftly from a different angle and I breathed in fresh air to help me clear my mind. I doubted that an international operation of the kind planned would escape the notice of the public for very long. However, after a period of two or three weeks, lack of information by the media would cause interest to lapse. One thing I had learned well in the newspaper business was the fact that the public had a very short memory. The campaign was nonsense really. How many real Nazis, in positions of power or otherwise, would storm-troops or police or the military catch in their net? And what about the offspring? The children and grandchildren! How could anyone prove whether they still carried Fascism in their hearts and minds and intended to do something sinister about it? On the other hand, how far did one have to go to stamp out the concept of Nazism? It was a question I had failed to pose to the efficient Captain Watson, but it was too late to determine the solution now. The Nazis had been famous for delivering lorry loads of people to concentration camps. Now the boot was on the other foot. I wondered how they would like it?

  I returned to the newspaper building and walked tiredly into Ted Flander’s office. He was on the telephone, puffing away at a large cigar and I sat down until he finished the call. When he replaced the receiver, he glowered at me as though I had opened Pandora’s Box to bring all the ills of the world upon him. ‘They’ve issued us with bloody “D” notices!’ he shouted, as if I was the person to blame. ‘Bloody “D” notices! We come up with a story to shake a nation... to shake the world... and what does the bloody government do? They won’t let us print it! Do you realise the government’s guilty of suppression of material facts which the public should know about! They trying to run this country as a secret society like tyrants and despots. We can’t let it happen without a fight! I mean it! We’ve got to fight!’

  I yawned with little interest, rubbing a hand over my face. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ I taunted him, because I knew he was powerless to do anything about it.

  He sat back on his haunches allowing his temper to subside. ‘There’s damn all anyone can do... and you know it!’ he muttered puffing fiercely at his cigar before embarking on a chronic bout of coughing. ‘Remind me to give these up, will you?’ he went on, once he had regained his breath. ‘Smoking can damage your health, you know.’ He ignored my gales of laughter as the humour of his remark sank home.

  ‘Anyhow it’s not all bad news, Ted. Strogoff, the man who’s after your blood, is on his way back to Russia,’ I revealed eventually. ‘He’s been arrested and I’m afraid it’ll be the last you ever see of him again.’

  ‘Afraid?’ he challenged vehemently. ‘Thank God they got him!’ He puffed strongly on the cigar again, causing great clouds of smoke to pollute the office further. ‘O.K., let’s get down to business! We can’t publish the story of your assignment but there’s more ways of killing a cat than banging its head against the wall. What side issues are there? Something we might be able to sneak in without getting slapped over the wrist by th
e authorities! There must be something of great news value in this assignment somewhere!’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Come on, God of newspapers! Give me something to work on!’

  I shrugged my shoulders aimlessly. ‘I’ve just come from the House of Commons. There’s a witch-hunt going on in European countries to root out the Nazis and their families. Don’t ask me to give you further details because it isn’t worth the aggravation thinking about it.’

  ‘Come on, Jimmy!’ he urged. ‘Give me an angle... any angle! I’ve got the boss in the penthouse on my back, and a public hungry for news outside. What do I do?’

  I waved the smoke away from my face with a sweep of my hand and stood up to leave. ‘Why can’t you print the story about Strogoff? A Russian criminal who escaped across the icy wastes of Siberia to start a movement in this country to avenge himself against his captors. You could say he then discovered a number of Nazis living in hiding, and blackmailed them to help him build a fortress near Berchtesgaden... near the Eagle’s Nest... one of Hitler’s favourite retreats. It sounds pretty good to me. Your blessed public will love it. Not only that... but it doesn’t have a “D” notice slapped on it. You can print what you like!’

  A gleam came into his eyes as he realised he had a story after all. ‘Write it for me, Jimmy!’ he pressed. ‘Make it a two-column item with a two inch header on the front page, plus a three-part story for the Sundays!’

  ‘Go write it your bloody self!’ I swore in contempt. ‘I’m going home to get some sleep... even though my mattress has been cut to ribbons!’

  ‘Ah, you’re always going home to sleep. What’s the matter with you? Low blood-pressure or something? Don’t worry, I’ll get someone to look through your notes and write it... but you won’t get the credit. You won’t get the by-line!’

  ‘Before you blow a gasket with your rotten threats, Ted,’ I informed him frankly. ‘There are no notes. It’s all up here in my head! But, for the sake of my job, I’ll start writing it in the morning.’