Avenging Steel 4: The Tree of Liberty

by Hall, Ian

  But it couldn’t have been that bad. Schmeisser rounds came immediately from inside, tracer flashing outward into the church.

  “Balfour!” Ivanhoe bawled into the murk. “Balfour!”

  More shots, then a steady machine gun burst. They didn’t seem to be trying to conserve ammunition, and that was a bad sign; either they knew help was on its way, or they had plenty of ammo to spare. Either way it didn’t play well for our ‘time’ aspect.

  As the smoke cleared, the firing from within continued, shots now directed rather than random. One of the men from the van reeled, and fell onto the aisle; he held his head and screamed in agony. Only three of us remained.

  A figure appeared in the main doorway, silhouetted against the daylight beyond, rifle at the ready. I took aim, and let him have a full burst. As he staggered and fell, I changed magazines.

  “I didn’t tell them anything!” I heard Balfour’s roar from my position, wondered what sacrifices he’d taken to shout out. When he bellowed in pain, I guessed he’d been hit badly in retaliation.

  That just triggered more shots from within, two hitting the wood near me. I crouched lower, moved away from the immediate field of fire.

  Damn if the minutes didn’t drag on.

  We were almost helpless, held in position by the withering fire from the vestry, and the fact that our ‘safe’ time was slowly ticking away.

  Ivanhoe motioned Dave forward, and the two attacked. In a fraction of a second, both had dived for cover as a hail of bullets from either side of the door flashed around them. I didn’t blame them for taking cover; it was a miracle that they made it to ground alive.

  Ivanhoe looked back at me, shrugged his shoulders. I repeated the gesture back; I had no ideas to solve the problem.

  I saw his shoulders fall, then he placed his Sten gun on the floor, reached for the grenades in his pockets.

  Oh shit, no.

  With no shout of warning, he tossed the first one right down the gullet of the vestry doorway. I could see tears in his eyes as he launched the second.

  Boom. Shards flew everywhere, the wall cracked.

  When he threw the third, he was already bending to grab his machine gun.

  Boom.

  I watched him mouth the command “Let’s go!” and he grabbed Dave’s sleeve in case the man hadn’t heard. I took the lead, sprinting down the aisle as the third grenade exploded. I held my Sten gun at my waist, keeping it trained on the light outside.

  I needn’t have bothered. The crossroads was deserted, the butcher’s van gone.

  Inside, we’d achieved our objective; we’d rescued Balfour from the cruel torture he must have been enduring, and we’d killed his tormentors. I didn’t feel good, in fact right at that moment I’m not sure I felt much of anything at all.

  I quickly considered my options, then turned right. The crossroads gave me four avenues of escape, but only one lay downhill. I scurried away, building up speed as I ran. Once over the main road, I tossed the Sten gun and its two magazines over a wall and sprinted down the hill. To my chagrin, the road narrowed to two tall walls on either side that both echoed my footfalls and trapped me. If I encountered Germans here, I had no hope of escape. But with possible pursuit building behind, I had no alternative but to run onwards. I passed under a railway bridge, and from the railway’s easterly direction I assumed I was going north. Somewhere to my front lay Easter Road, Hibs’ ground, and streets I was familiar with, but right there and then I was lost.

  When the road sloped uphill, I began to feel the beginnings of a stitch in my side, and I slowed to a walk. I also discarded my jacket, tossing it to one side; I needed a change of appearance, and I needed to cool down. I rolled my sleeves up as I walked, brushing my hair back with my fingers.

  Behind me, I heard sirens getting nearer, then they stopped, probably at the church.

  I walked on, drifting left, searching for the football ground as a target, then as I turned yet another corner, I caught sight of its familiar stands.

  I breathed a little better, and let the beginnings of a smile pass my lips. Then, with the smile came a wave of guilt.

  We’d killed Balfour.

  And yet I pushed any recrimination from me.

  Yes, we’d blown poor Balfour to bits, but we’d also stopped a possible wealth of information reaching German hands.

  I wondered if that ending awaited me too. Tied to a chair, beaten beyond description, then blown to bits with a grenade made by a woman in Huddersfield.

  Unfortunately as I walked, I strode straight into a German armored car coming in my direction. An officer in the turret pointed to me and gave an order down into the vehicle. Apart from me the street was deserted.

  To my horror it braked to a standstill to my front, swerving on the street to bar my way.

  “Halt!” the Lieutenant called in a shrill voice so unbecoming for the Third Reich. He dismounted with some grace, and unbuckled his Luger. “Against wall!”

  I raised my hands, and placed them on the high wall. “Ich bin ein Reporter.” I protested, my breath blowing dust from the dry stone.

  “Halte den Mund!” I felt him run his hands over me and my pockets, none too gracefully I may add, and flinched when he grabbed my wallet from my back pocket. “Ich bin ein Reporter,” I repeated. “Aus der Scotsman.”

  He turned me around, and I lowered my hands at his gesture. “Wohin gehst du?”

  “Auf dem Fußballplatz,” I pointed to the stadium, then struggled for the word for manager. Damn my thinking-on-the-spot deficiencies. “Ich spreche mit dem… manager.”

  He handed me the papers, and to my surprise, got back onto his car, hung on by two hand-holds, banged the side, and it drove away.

  For a second I considered that was the extent of my punishment, but I had to explain myself another twice before I reached the safety of Easter Road’s green corrugated gates. After kicking them for about a minute, a groundskeeper let me inside. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, some shenanigans up at Fairmilehead.”

  He looked at me, up and down. “Come on, I’ll get the kettle on.”

  Trust us Brits and our ability to swallow all ills when given a hot cup of tea.

  The area was full of Germans, building a cordon around the area, but it seemed I’d beaten them, and was safely outside. Trams caught inside and beyond the circle made them scarce, but I did catch one on London Road that took me further away from the epicenter of the problem.

  Once back onto Market Street, I saw a truck being unloaded. Unable to get inside the building proper, it had parked outside, and men were carrying five gallon drums of chemicals inside. One man stood atop the truck, handing the canisters down.

  I slipped into the line, accepted my two containers, and walked into the building. Once inside, I calmly walked upstairs through the building to my office, where I sat, head down, seemingly busy. It was a good fifteen minutes before Steve Wilkinson, the Editor, opened my door. “James! There’s been an incident at Fairmilehead.”

  I feigned disinterest. “What kind of incident?”

  “Bombing or something, just thought you’d like to know.”

  “Aye, thanks. Keep me informed, will you?”

  He nodded and disappeared.

  I considered my position. If I was going to get more involved in such raids, I might have to change my profession. Being high profile, it was difficult to work on both, and it had caused problems in the past. I gave a sigh, coming to the conclusion that someone else would make the decision, not me.

  I also couldn’t tell Alice, not yet; the incident was far too hot to consider endangering her by her knowing about it.

  I did, however, insist on a beer after dinner that night. As Alice did her usual digesting of the Evening News, her new source for disseminating information to her operatives, I sunk my teeth into one beer after the next.

  When we made love that night, I will admit to being a little too detached for my own liking.

  I had no
contact from the organization for the next two days. The office phone rang, but it was the usual chatter from my four newspaper group; stories for the second issue of The Tree of Liberty. I wrote their news, and passed it all on.

  On Thursday, Reggie Dyer from The Times called. After we talked news, he cleared his throat, and the conversation changed. “Listen, Jimmy, we’ve got a position here, on the newspaper, that you might be interested in.”

  I was being head-hunted.

  The job was very similar to the one I had, but I’d liaise with both the secretaries of the War Cabinet and members of the German High Command. The pay was double what I was getting at The Scotsman, but there, of course, was a snag; it would mean living in or around London.

  “I’ll really think about it, Reggie.” I said for maybe the third time, then placed the phone receiver softly on its holder.

  I pulled Alice from her office and told her my news. No secrets.

  Yeah, as I’d envisaged, not so enthusiastic… but she did point out one glaring fact.

  If I took another job, I’d be doing myself out of my ‘secret agent’ gig.

  “You could probably find some kind of position down there,” she said, her face pale and sorrowful. “But up here you fit in, you blend, and that’s useful. Very useful. You also know Edinburgh like the back of your hand. Down there you’d stick out like a sore thumb; you’d be instantly recognized by you accent, and you don’t know Piccadilly from Trafalgar Square.”

  When Ivanhoe jumped on out tram that evening, I looked for all signs of him being unsettled, but he sat behind me calm as you like. “Get off next stop. Go to the Cameo, it’s a Spencer Tracy thing, sit near the back.”

  Considering the Cameo Cinema was so close to our apartment, I hadn’t been there in years, and Alice had expressed little interest.

  I sat in the back row, slunk down low, and waited.

  Once the film started, and the lights went out, I sensed Ivanhoe’s presence beside me.

  “Debrief.” He said simply. There was no one within thirty feet of us. “What happened on Monday was a tragedy, but we had to do it. Right?”

  “I agree.” I replied simply. I’d had so many thoughts on the subject, I could have written a book.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I got away fine.” In the complete darkness I couldn’t help but think of a gun pointed at my belly. Ivanhoe’s methodology had been perfectly understandable, but it didn’t bode well for anyone else caught. “I got stopped, but talked my way out of it.”

  “You did well on Monday, James.”

  “Eh, thanks,” Not exactly what I’d expected.

  “Out of seven dead Jerry, we reckon you got four of them.”

  “If you include the grenade at the front door, then, Aye, I got four.”

  I felt him gently punch my shoulder. “I might just use you again.”

  “Thanks I’m sure.”

  Then I told him of my new job offer.

  “Are you thinking about it?”

  I gave a curt sigh. “I think I am.”

  “It’d be the last of your part-time work with us, I’m afraid.”

  And so Alice’s words came back again… I’d make more money, but I’d lose the ‘spy’ work.

  I walked out of the cinema that night in a low pensive mood.

  It didn’t change until the weekend.

  I had Friday dinner with my family.

  I had Saturday breakfast with my family.

  Then, on Saturday afternoon, as I revisited the Cameo, with Alice in tow this time to actually watch the film, I came to the firm conclusion that I’d phone Reggie on Monday morning and decline his offer.

  Yes, I had so much to gain by moving to the times, but the resistance work had become my passion; I just couldn’t leave it behind.

  Going to London I’d lose my own ‘secret agent’ persona. By taking Alice with me, she’d lose hers too.

  Then there were mum and Frances.

  We were seated at the table for Saturday dinner when the phone rang.

  Ivanhoe.

  “Tell your family you’re taking the job.”

  I looked at them across the room. “What?”

  “Tell them you’re taking the job, but it’s only an eight week assignment; you’re in training.”

  “Training for what?” I knew I’d just spilled the beans in the room, but I was slightly confused. “What’s going on?”

  “You tell the family and you tell your newspaper you’re going to London next Monday.”

  “Next Monday?”

  “Yes, then we whisk you from the station.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “You, Sonny Jim, are going to Canada for eight weeks.”

  Canada.

  And I kept that firmly in my head.

  Oh Bloody hell…