The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  The film ended abruptly.

  ‘There is no way we can show that,” said the immaculate Henson.

  ‘It’s the best scoop you’ve ever had,’ said John.

  ‘The Gestapo would be in here in a minute. We’d all be arrested.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ John asked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘No, tell me. Where do you live? Up the road in a tenement?’

  ‘I live in Bowdon, not that it will mean anything to you.’

  ‘Yes it does. We drove through it. This is Ollerton, a few miles up the road from your house. It could be Bowdon next.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It’s not nonsense, Jimmy. And you know it isn’t. You’ve seen the film. These are ordinary people. They could be your neighbours. If it’s your turn next, what will you do? Hold your hands up and shout Kamerad while they shoot you? Or fight back, like these are doing?’

  Rumbelow, the producer, said, ‘You know an awful lot about this. Where did you get the film?’

  ‘Two of the people with us, a young couple, they escaped from the village.’

  ‘We still can’t show this,’ Henson said. ‘The authorities will have a reason for going into the village. They’ll …’

  ‘They want to wipe it off the face of the earth,’ said John. ‘Don’t you understand? Mosley has ordered it to please Hitler.’

  Paul said, ‘When are we on?’

  Rumbelow said, ‘Ten minutes.’

  George and Ringo wandered onto the set. Ringo was still eating and carrying a cup of coffee. They waved to the glass room and Paul waved back. Brian and Helen were with them. They sat on the furniture in front of the cameras and lights.

  ‘Who the hell are they?’ said Henson.

  John said, ‘That’s the couple who escaped from the village.’

  ‘Where’s security?’ Henson said. ‘Get them out of here before we’re all arrested.’

  ‘You called?’

  They looked down the long thin curving room to see Vince Slater. He lifted his jacket so they could see the butt of a gun.

  ‘Good God,’ said Henson.

  ‘I take it you don’t want to do the interview?’ Paul said.

  The presenter sat down heavily in a chair, his face flushed, his hands shaking. Other people began to enter: Tim Rumbelow’s assistants.

  John said to Rumbelow, ‘Just give us a cue and we’ll do the piece ourselves. And I’d appreciate it if you would run the film.’

  Vince leaned over and said quietly to the producer, ‘I’ll stay with you so you can say you had no choice. And to make sure Mr Henson stays put for the duration.’

  Rumbelow gave them a tight smile. ‘I’ll run it.’

  The Beatles interview went out at 12 30 and was watched across the country. An off-screen voice introduced them and the opening shot was of six people, sitting on the furniture on the set. John pointed a loaded finger at the camera like a gun and the picture changed to him in close up.

  ‘Hello, Great Britain,’ he said. ‘Welcome to our front room, here at Granada Studios in Manchester, on this suspicious occasion. Bear with us, because this is a change to the expected broadcast. For a start, our interviewer has gone down with a bad dose of cold feet, so we will have to do the best we can on our own.’

  Paul said, ‘All on our own,’ and the television picture changed to a full shot of all six.

  ‘We don’t want to be on our own,’ said George.

  ‘But sometimes you have to be,’ said Ringo.

  ‘Like the people of Ollerton,’ said John, and the TV picture went back to close up. ‘This is a village in Cheshire that we drove past this morning. We could hear gunfire and explosions and see the smoke from fires from miles away. We stopped on the main road and picked up Helen and Brian.’ He looked sideways. ‘This is Helen and Brian.’

  Another full shot, with the other three Beatles all pointing with extended fingers and raised thumbs.

  George said, ‘They’d escaped from the village and they told us what was going on.’

  Ringo said, ‘The SS were going on.’

  Paul said, ‘They call it a sanction. They are going to kill everyone and level the village.’

  John said, ‘They’re going to wipe it off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Which is not nice,’ said George. ‘At Christmas.’

  They all looked back at John and his face again appeared in close up.

  ‘Now this takes some believing,’ he said. ‘I can see you at home, shaking your heads, and saying it couldn’t happen here. But it is happening here. Sir Oswald Mosley has ordered it to happen here because Hitler wants it to happen. He wants it to happen in England because Mr Heydrich was killed in England. It is happening right now. And the villagers in Ollerton are fighting back. They refused to be sanctioned.’

  John stared out of the screen into living rooms around the nation.

  ‘I’m sorry if this is not the broadcast you expected. We have a piece of film to show. It’s film of what is happening in Ollerton that Brian and Helen brought out with them. Watch what is happening there and think that it could happen in your town next. The villagers are holding out but we don’t know for how much longer. They need help and if enough people start shouting, maybe we can stop it. Now, you still might not believe me so we’ll roll the film and Helen and Brian can tell you what’s happening.’ He nodded beyond the camera. ‘Roll the film.’

  The disjointed black and white footage went out. Helen and Brian watched it on a monitor and were hesitant at first but outrage and desperation made them speak and become more fluent. At the end, the camera cut to Helen and Brian, holding hands, in close-up.

  Helen said, ‘My father is a Party member. My brother has been to SS college. They were warned by the SS and left the village before the killing started. I heard what the SS said. I’m not brave, but I had to warn my friends. I couldn’t leave with my father.’

  Brian said, ‘My family and friends, my village is fighting to stay alive, but they can’t survive forever on their own. They need help. Please, help them.’

  The shot pulled back to take them all in and John said, ‘Helen and Brian are survivors. Don’t let them be the only ones.’

  They could hear fists pounding on the locked studio doors. Before the programme ended, George leaned towards the camera and said, ‘This has been a public service film on behalf of the world.’

  The cameras stopped and John saw Tom Rumbelow in the production box giving him the thumbs up. Vince left the box and ran across the studio.

  ‘We’d better go,’ he said.

  Alec was waiting and led them along a corridor. The place was a maze and they went through an area of props and a joiner’s shop and out of a door into a side street.

  Vince glanced up the road and said, ‘Straight across. Neil has a van in the next street.’

  They ran, John feeling elated and frightened. He needed the fear; he’d been complacent too long. He also felt sorry for the others for the danger he had put them in. They went down an alley, down stone steps beneath a gargoyled arch, and into a narrow street. A plain-sided grey van waited that looked remarkably like the battered transport they had used before they were famous. The eight of them piled in.

  ‘Easy come, easy go,’ said George, grunting as Ringo landed on him.

  ‘How far is it to Scotland?’ asked Paul.

  Brian said, ‘I don’t want to go to Scotland. I want to go home.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Helen.

  John looked at his three fellow musicians. Vince leaned over from the front passenger seat and grinned knowingly.

  ‘Fuck it,’ said John and, glancing at Helen, added, ‘Scuse my French.’ He looked back at Vince Slater and shrugged. ‘It looks like the barricades.’

  Chapter 40

  Scotland

  Guy Burgess had been economical with the truth about the situation in Scotland when he had briefed the Prime Minister. The almost 2,000 me
n of the 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 1st SS Brigade had gone looking for revenge when they had driven into Glasgow from their temporary barracks in the north west of the city. The early morning civilian death toll had been much higher than Burgess stated but the balance began to swing against the troopers as the day progressed.

  The fact that English SS were responsible unified resistance and the foreign soldiers discovered that when it came to street fighting they were less than a match for the militia from the Gorbals. They were driven back to their vehicles in St George’s Square where they took cover and kept citizens at bay with ebbing firepower and called for Scottish military assistance. When units of the Highland Light Infantry arrived, the SS had suffered more than 50 per cent casualties, the bulk of them dead, as few prisoners had been taken. The Highland Light Infantry negotiated a ceasefire, disarmed the troopers and took them back to Maryhill under guard.

  Nationalism flamed across Scotland, joint military and police units patrolled towns and cities to deter looters, and Scottish divisions took control of the major highway border points between Scotland and England.

  Ollerton

  Major Duncan Alistair told his company commanders and company sergeant majors of the threat they faced if they were unsuccessful in the coming battle. He told them to tell their men.

  ‘They might as well die here as on Guernsey,’ he said.

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Captain Mortimer, who had yet to see action.

  Jock McGrew, the CSM of B Company, was not so sure. Troopers who had been taking shelter in village homes, had watched the television broadcast by the Beatles. It had unsettled them. Being threatened with what was a virtual death sentence unsettled them even more. He was aware that some had been sizing up civilian suits they had found in case they needed another option, such as desertion to the nearby cities of Liverpool or Manchester.

  Major Alistair sensed the unease and resentment among the troopers. He issued a further order, stating his total confidence in the men. When they had taken the church, anything of value in the village, including the women, was theirs. Not that this had much affect. Troopers had already stolen anything of value from the empty properties and had every intention of doing whatever they wanted with the women.

  The major delayed the attack for as long as possible to give the 2nd Battalion time to get mobilised and start their journey from Chester. If his men failed to immediately capture the church, the best they could do was keep the battle going until the arrival of reinforcements when artillery would swiftly overcome any problems. He could then, he hoped, claim a moral victory which might save his own life and those of his men.

  After all, he reasoned, the Government would gloss this over. They would not want a debacle to put before Hitler. He planned his attack meticulously, with a snifter or two of Scotch to steady the nerves, and the more he went over it, the more he was convinced he wouldn’t need the reinforcements of Lieutenant Colonel McKeown.

  During the lull in the fighting, Richard Marshall’s 13-year-old son James found Radio Free Britain while tuning one of the two remaining transistors. He called his father.

  ‘We’re on the radio,’ he shouted.

  Those nearby moved closer to listen and the Colonel and Willie joined Richard and Alison and their son and heard the same broadcast the Beatles had listened to earlier. The four Beethoven notes played and it started again.

  Willie said, ‘Take it round the church, James. Let everybody here it.’

  The boy ran down the gallery to let a group of defenders hear the message. When the notes sounded, he ran into the Sunday School room to spread the news.

  ‘So there’s trouble in Scotland, too,’ said the Colonel. ‘Newcastle and Carlisle. Even Europe. Do you think this could really be the start of something?’

  Richard said, ‘These things have to start somewhere. Why not here? Why not now?’

  Willie watched the people who had heard the message and who were spreading it by word of mouth. They were elated, as if they were about to be rescued.

  ‘I hope they don’t expect too much,’ he said.

  ‘They’re calling on people to come and help us,’ said the Colonel, referring to the broadcast.

  ‘But will they?’ said Willie. ‘And will they come in time? Besides, it’s Radio Free Britain. How many people listen to it?’

  ‘Possibly more than you think,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Radio Free Britain,’ Willie said again. ‘It’s a propaganda station. Is it true?’

  ‘God, Willie. We have to believe it’s true.’

  James shouted from the far gallery.

  ‘I’ve lost it, Mr Ashford.’ He held up the radio. ‘I can only get static.’

  ‘They’re blocking it,’ said Willie. ‘Maybe it is true. Where’s it broadcast from?’

  ‘Ireland?’ said Richard. ‘The Irish Government deny it, but it seems most likely.’

  ‘How do they know about us in Ireland?’ said Willie.

  ‘Helen and Brian?’ said the Colonel. ‘They must have made it.’

  ‘Or there’s a resistance movement we didn’t know about,’ said Richard. ‘One that’s watching and reporting. Maybe waiting to take action.’

  The broadcast gave hope to the defenders of the church who, moments before had been slumped in exhaustion and sometimes tears, as the adrenalin rush of battle had seeped away and they had taken stock of friends who had died or been wounded and wondered why they were still alive.

  Frank Beevers and District Nurse Bella Brown continued to work non-stop in the Lady Chapel surgery and men and women took food and drink to those who dare not leave their posts. Much of the stained-glass had gone as well pieces of masonry around the edges of the windows. The truck in which Willie, Kevin and Susan had travelled had been firebombed from the church roof when troopers had run to take advantage of its cover and was now a smouldering wreck.

  Willie wore a trooper’s belt, holster and handgun and had a grenade in his jacket pocket. His left arm was in a sling and useless but his right was serviceable. He made the rounds of the galleries and defensive positions with the Colonel and realised how magnificently these ordinary people had fought to keep their attackers at bay.

  Tony and Susan Ogilvy manned a rifle position together, from where they could see the ruins of their family business. Maureen Wilson contained her widow’s grief and Marjorie Humphrey her unspoken fears for her son by working as nurses. The severely wounded went to the warmth of the basement boiler room, the dead to the crypt. Sally Beevers and Ruth Ogilvy served soup and hot tea on the galleries. Richard Marshall sat on a bench, face blackened and jacket torn from an explosion, and shared a snatched meal with his schoolboy son. His wife Alison, stood nearby cradling her assault rifle, as if on guard.

  Willie had been told how Joe had manned the heavy machinegun on the hill against the troopers until it was silenced with an explosion. Wherever he looked, he saw reluctant heroes: men, women and children, who had accepted an extraordinary challenge for survival. What they had faced and what they could still face was terrible but the alternative would have been worse.

  Eliza crossed the church to join him, vibrant and beautiful, cradling the sawn-off in the crook of her arm. She almost looked at ease in the situation, as if she had been dormant for years, waiting for the chance to express herself, waiting for the chance to live again. He wanted desperately to tell her that he loved her but knew that he wouldn’t; that he couldn’t. It would not be honourable because he also loved his wife, although in a different way, and she deserved his commitment. He wondered where Sheila was and if she was safe. Mary would make sure she was safe. Poor Mary. What would she do without Joe?

  ‘Why are they waiting?’ Eliza said.

  ‘They may be waiting for artillery.’

  Her blonde hair was streaked with dust and a smudge of dirt went from her nose across her cheek like war paint. Her lips had a natural pout and he saw no fear in her eyes. As well as loving her, he desired her. He looked awa
y but he sensed she had read his expression and he felt guilty at revealing his feelings so blatantly. She put a hand on his arm, as if to say she knew and that it was all right. She was about to speak when a record began to play on the gallery.

  Old Jasper had found a wind-up gramophone in the Sunday School room. The record he had chosen to play was of a soprano singing the William Blake hymn Jerusalem. It took Willie a second or two to adjust to the music: the tune was emotive, but he had never really taken notice of the words before. Everyone in the church was listening.

  And did those feet in ancient time

  Walk upon England’s mountain green?

  And was the holy Lamb of God

  On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

  And did the countenance divine

  Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

  And was Jerusalem builded here

  Among those dark satanic mills?

  In another time, another place, the words would have hinted at the aspirations of a nation and the music might have swelled the chest with pride. But now? In this hour of desperation? He scoured the faces that had turned towards the sound and saw no rejection. As the second verse started, Mr Brown the bank clerk, and a member of the church choir, began to sing softly along with the recording. Other voices joined in.

  Bring me my bow of burning gold

  Bring me my arrows of desire

  Bring me my spear. Oh clouds, unfold

  Bring me my chariot of fire.

  I will not cease from mental fight,

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,

  Till we have built Jerusalem