Sir Martin Pew had been furthest away and he lay spread-eagled on the carpet, his striped trousers tattered, his immaculate white shirt stained, and scalp and hair sheered from the side of his head. He moaned and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. The Chiefs of Staff and SS General Hyde were all dead. Their love of military discussion meant they had been standing or leaning over the maps. Home Secretary James Dawson lay in a ball groaning and what was left of his left leg twitched. Defence Secretary Hugh Taylor was sitting upright against a wall, his hands ineffectually holding a hole in his stomach; blood and intestine oozed between his fingers. Commander Stafford Cole was alive and crawling across the carpet, away from the table
Sir Oswald Mosley was in two pieces. His upper body had been thrown into the fireplace. A hand was missing and Philby wondered if he’d been striking a pose when the blasts happened, leaving his hand on the mantelpiece. His face was remarkably undamaged and his eyes were wide as if he couldn’t quite believe that he was dead.
Gibbins said, ‘Some bastard will pay for this. My God, they’ll pay.’
Philby glanced around at him. The officer had been handpicked as a fervent Party member and because of his unswerving loyalty to Mosley. The job had brought him prestige, favours from outside influences and suits from Savile Row. He was bent but loyal which, Philby supposed, could be said of many officers in similar positions. He raised the Luger and shot him in the chest. There was no compunction in the act; he would have time later to feel distress, when he discovered whether the course of action they had set in motion was likely to succeed or not. If it was, he and Burgess might live; if it was not, they would probably die. And that would cause him distress.
Burgess said, ‘What a bloody mess.’
Philby had been close to bloodshed before. In Austria and in the Spanish Civil War in the thirties when he had seen fellow journalists blown apart. But that had been a long time ago. Latterly, he had dealt with state violence as an abstract concept. Now the situation demanded state violence of a more personal nature.
He looked at Burgess and saw that the strain was showing in his face. Burgess glanced around the room, from one survivor to the next, before he looked back at Philby. He licked his lips and nodded confirmation of what had to be done. He picked up a cushion, went to Home Secretary James Dawson and rolled the man onto his back, causing him to groan loudly. He put the cushion over his face and pressed it down. The man was unconscious and his body twitched and his good right leg kicked as he was suffocated.
Philby went to Defence Secretary Hugh Taylor who was holding his stomach in his hands. Taylor looked up, his eyes expressionless, and Philby knew he was close to death. He left him and turned to Stafford Cole of the Gestapo. He no longer looked like a Hollywood B villain; he looked like a man who had defecated. Philby shot him in the back of the head and moved on to Sir Martin Pew.
The civil servant lay like a starfish. His eyes had followed Philby’s actions.
‘Why?’ he said, the word causing a bubble of blood from between his lips.
‘For love of country,’ said Sir Harold Philby, and shot him in the head.
He took a deep breath that this part, at least, was over and turned round. Burgess faced him from further down the room.
‘Will we get away with it?’ he said.
‘If we fail, we shall do so with style, Guy. Come on. Let’s face the panic.’
Philby led the way from the Cabinet Room, closing the door behind them. Two uniformed policemen waited in the anteroom.
‘Is the building secure?’ Philby asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want officers in the garden as well. No one is to enter the Cabinet Room. No one is to look inside. Is that understood? No one.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The clarity of the orders seemed to settle their doubts. ‘The Prime Minister, sir?’
‘Sir Oswald is dead. So are the men who killed him.’ He licked his lips, as if drained of emotion, and said in a low voice, ‘No one should see the Prime Minister in that condition. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
One officer remained in the anteroom; the other went down the corridor to distribute orders. Philby turned away, making no attempt to hide the Luger, and Burgess followed him into Sir Martin Pew’s office.
‘Make the calls, Guy.’
Burgess went to the telephone and Philby remained in the doorway, half in the room and half in the corridor. Mosley’s physician, an elegant man in a three-piece dark blue suit and carrying a medical bag, approached and Philby stopped him.
‘The Prime Minister is dead,’ he said.
‘But I must see …’
‘He is in two parts, doctor. Believe me, he is dead, as is everybody else in that room. Which is why it has now been sealed.’
‘I must insist …’
‘You will do as you are told, doctor.’
Ambulance and police alarms sounded outside.
He looked past the physician to Daniel Day-Brown.
‘Daniel?’
'Sir?’ The young man looked surprised but pleased that Philby knew his first name and had used it.
‘Are the Press still outside?’
‘They’ve been moved into Whitehall but they’re still there.’
‘Tell them there will be a Press announcement within the hour.’
‘A Press announcement?’
Philby put a fatherly hand on the young man’s shoulder.
‘The Prime Minister and the chiefs of staff are dead. Right at this moment, our priority is the security of the nation. The Press heard the explosion and they have seen the emergency services arrive. Speculation can be damaging and we need to make a positive statement as soon as possible before troublemakers take advantage. You’re doing a good job, Daniel, and I’ll need you close by me. Go and organise the Press but tell them nothing. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The doctor had been listening.
‘They’re all dead?’ he said, and Philby nodded. ‘Good God. This could mean revolution.’
Burgess appeared in the doorway and nodded to Philby.
‘Not if we can help it,’ the Director General of MI6 told the doctor. ‘We shall do all we can to ensure a smooth transition of power.’
Chapter 45
Ollerton
They had speculated how the SS might attack. They could bring ladders to the windows or a battering ram to the front door. Once the defenders’ ammunition had been used, both were possible, and once the troopers had gained entry, there would be only one winner. Willie had five shots in a Luger pistol and an eight-inch bayonet in his belt.
The doors were barricaded. The sacristy had been abandoned as being too difficult to hold, and filled with furniture and broken pews. If invaders stormed it, they would find it difficult to negotiate. The inner door had been reinforced.
Shotguns and knives had been given to the wounded in the boiler room, in case entry was gained from the outside cellar steps. The space between inner and outer doors had been filled with pews to strengthen the barrier. The main door into the church led into a lobby that had been stacked with the remaining pews. Anyone storming in would have difficulty getting to the inner door into the church.
Surviving villagers peered cautiously out of the windows to see from where the attack might come. Troopers were in evidence in and around the still smouldering ruins of the vicarage and beyond the wall at the altar end. Most of all, they seemed to be gathering on the side of the church that faced the main road. Their bayonets bristled above the church wall and soldiers ran between the houses around the village green, almost inviting shots, to take up positions from which they could launch an assault.
Willie watched their preparations from the gallery and said to the Colonel, ‘I think they’ll try all three doors simultaneously.’
‘I suppose this is the time we commend our souls.’
‘Or pray for a miracle.’
Mr Brown, the bank clerk and stretch
er-bearer, who had armed himself with a rifle and bayonet, was nearby.
‘Do you think we’ll get a miracle, Mr Ashford?’ he said.
‘I don’t know, Mr Brown. But I think we deserve one.’
The bank clerk, his suit dirty, torn and bloodstained, his tie gone for a tourniquet but his shirt still neatly buttoned to the neck, smiled nervously, and said, ‘Mr Ashford? I’m glad we gave it a go.’
‘So am I, Mr Brown. So am I.’
‘They’re on the move,’ said the Colonel. He held an assault rifle with bayonet fitted. ‘Hold your fire,’ he shouted. ‘Save what you have until it counts.’
Soldiers from houses across the road opened fire. They used spaced shots at the windows to keep people down. Willie guessed they were using the last of their ammunition to allow the assault teams to get close. He risked a look and saw four soldiers moving between the gravestones towards the front door. One of them carried a haversack. Grenades? He had hoped they had all gone. As he looked, the one carrying the bag fell, an arrow protruding from his neck. Val Halford was taking vengeance. A comrade picked up the bag and ran on.
The Colonel shouted to the boy who waited in the doorway at the end of the gallery.
‘Tell them on the roof. The main door is being attacked.’
The boy turned and ran.
Someone from the altar shouted, ‘They’re attacking the sacristy again.’
Willie looked into the body of the church and Eliza returned his stare. She and the three other women were ready with their sawn-off shotguns.
Wobbly Bob peered over the roof and flinched at the bullets that struck the stonework. Three soldiers were by the main door but he had also seen another soldier make a dash from a gravestone to the church itself, carrying a satchel. He lit a petrol bomb and tossed it over the side and heard the whoosh of the blast and the screams of the men, followed by a loud explosion that caused the roof to tremor.
So they still had explosives. And what was the lone trooper doing by the side of the church?
‘Sammy.’ The 14-year-old schoolboy, hands and face black as a chimney sweep, waited for instructions. ‘Go and tell Mr Ashford they’re trying to mine the side of the church.’ He pointed over the side. ‘Halfway.’
The boy nodded and began to turn but Bob gripped his arm and said, ‘Tell me what you have to say?’
‘They’re trying to mine the side of the church. Halfway.’
‘Good lad. Quick as you can.’
The boy went and Bob scrambled along the roof, behind the balustrade. He risked another look and a bullet hit him in the shoulder and threw him backwards onto the slates. My God, but it hurt and he knew it would hurt even more when the shock wore off. But where was the grenade he had been carrying? It lay a few feet away, the pin still intact. He tried to move and the pain caused him to slide down in a heap.
‘Henry,’ he shouted.
Henry was at the far end, over the sacristy. He came scuttling along the roof. Before he reached him, the world exploded beneath them.
Sammy delivered the warning and Willie immediately ordered the evacuation of the gallery. He went to the rail and shouted down to Eliza, ‘Take cover. They’re trying to blow a hole in the wall.’
He turned to watch the Colonel usher the last of the defenders into the Sunday School room and the blast happened and the gallery shook and began to tip and he fell onto his back. He jammed his foot against a protruding piece of wood and coughed in the dust and dirt. The gallery had survived but the section he was on had split from the main floor and tilted towards the ground at a forty-five degree angle. Willie moved his foot and allowed himself to slide down and over the edge. He dropped six feet to the floor of the church that was littered with pieces of stone and wood and the bodies of three defenders. Thankfully, the Lady Chapel redoubt had done its job, although the one protecting the wounded had collapsed.
The dust cloud obscured the damage but he knew it must be severe. The Colonel arrived at his side from the gallery and others gathered behind them. He could almost feel the hope drain away as they saw what had happened.
A hole twice the size of the main door had been blown in the wall. The thickness of the base had survived and masonry above it had collapsed on top to form a wall of rubble and ancient stone. They could hear the thud of boots and jangle of equipment as the SS Troopers charged but, before anyone could step forward, the first petrol bomb came down from the roof and exploded among them. The second, and last, petrol bomb followed and, as men screamed outside, Willie and the Colonel led the way to the breach followed by their diminishing army of men, women and young boys.
Chapter 46
Three fire appliances and four ambulances were at the head of the queue of traffic that was held up by the roadblock on the Upper Bedford road. More than 30 vehicles were waiting by the time the van carrying the Beatles arrived, and more were following in their wake. People left their cars and went to the front where a senior Fire Service officer argued with four SS Troopers and a Corporal who barred his way with bayonets fixed on their rifles. Their brazier still burned and their truck was parked at the side of the road. Smoke arose from the village and gunfire could be clearly heard.
New arrivals began to swap news they had heard on the car radio about an explosion in Downing Street.
John Lennon and Vernon Slater shared a look.
‘You could be part of history,’ said Vernon.
‘And those poor sods up there could be dying for it,’ said John.
The Beatles were being recognised and slapped on the back for making the broadcast. A Wolsley car eased past the stationery traffic by driving on the grass verge. It stopped and Simon Humphrey got out and shouted, ‘Brian. Helen.’
The three friends hugged and Sheila Ashford leaned forward to shout from the back seat, ‘Why is no one moving?’
‘Roadblock,’ someone said.
‘Well, move it,’ she replied.
‘She’s right,’ said John. ‘And I haven’t come this close to a barricade to sit and watch.’ He walked forward. ‘Hey, chief,’ he said to the Fire Officer. ‘What’s the hold up? You can see the fires.’
The SS Corporal pointed his bayonet at John and said, ‘No one is going in there.’
‘I think you’re wrong there, pal. There’s more of us arriving all the time and we’re not going to wait. Haven’t you heard? Someone’s bombed Downing Street. You could be out of a job.’ The Corporal backed off a fraction at John’s aggression and John sensed this barricade was collapsing. An explosion made them all stare towards the village. ‘Right,’ said John. ‘We’re coming through and you can sod off or we’ll run right over you. Are you coming, Chief?’
‘We’re coming,’ said the fire officer, and people began to run back to their vehicles.
The Corporal and the four troopers exchanged looks and backed away. The first car to drive past was the Wolsley driven by Mary and carrying Sheila Ashford and Simon Humphrey.
They were followed by the Transit van driven by Neil Aspinall, who had followed the Wolsley along the grass verge, and the fire appliances and all the other cars and vans. As the Transit went past the Corporal, they all heard the second explosion from the village.
The troopers came between the gravestones, out of the dust and smoke, bayonets catching the light. Those defenders with loaded weapons stood or knelt behind the rubble and took aim; no one wavered. Willie and the Colonel were side by side, Val Halford and her bowmen held their strings taught, Richard and Alison Marshall both levelled assault rifles, their son behind them, Tony Ogilvy had a single barrel shotgun, his wife Susan held a garden spade, his daughter Ruth a butcher’s knife, Kevin the postman had dragged himself from the boiler room using a broom as a crutch and held in his right hand a long handled felling axe.
‘Wait,’ said the Colonel, his voice level and carrying in the silence.
By a Victorian gravestone, Company Sergeant Major Jock McGrew died as he urged the men to attack, picked off from the church tow
er by Bob Harvey. At the lych gate, Captain Mortimer, the officer who had come late to the action, took the second and final bullet from the Mauser. In the tower, Bob Harvey took a bullet himself and fell back into the arms of Sally Beevers.
‘Wait,’ said the Colonel.
The troopers began to prepare themselves for the leap into the gap.
‘Fire,’ shouted the Colonel.
The blast of firepower and longbow arrows cut down the first wave of attackers and those following might have hesitated but the press of bodies was severe and they kept coming and the defenders fired again and again into their ranks. Willie held his shots for close targets and, as the weapons fell silent around him, he stepped onto the rubble and sensed others filling the gap around him, bayonets, pitchforks and knives on sticks forming the last determined barrier.
He took his shots with care, putting down a trooper with each one and then the last was fired and he threw the pistol and pulled the bayonet from his belt and swayed away from thrusts and slashed down at the attackers. The fighting was fierce and desperate. Mr Brown the bank clerk, screaming in fear and anger, skewered a soldier and then took a bayonet in the stomach from a second. He tumbled down the rubble barricade, his arms flailing to grab his attacker and take him down with him.
Old Jasper slid over the rubble like a gargoyle, scything at legs and bellies, the Colonel was steadfast and military and used the assault rifle and bayonet he held as if on a training ground, and Kevin the postman forgot the pain of his wound to scream defiance and swing the axe to deadly affect. Richard Marshall used his power to parry and stab, his wife Alison on his left had dropped the rifle and used the length of a pitchfork to bloody use, and his 13-year-old son James to his right, stabbed upwards with his home made spear.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 31
