Young Lions (27 page)

“Let’s make this quick,” Alan said. The boys could both hear the Police sirens approaching in the background.

“Alright,” Sam said wiping his cordite and sweat-soiled brow on the filthy sleeve of his tunic. Zorn looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of blood over him. Sam’s bullets had chewed up the floor leaving splinters and broken floorboards. Zorn was still alive. Sam could hear his breath rasping out through a desert dry throat and lungs desperately fighting for air. “This is for Mair and Ansett and the other good men that you’ve murdered.” Sam spat on Zorn’s forehead and watched the spittle dribble into the German’s eye. “And this is for me.” He emptied the remainder of his magazine into Zorn’s chest.

“What about him?” Alan asked before Zorn’s body had stopped twitching. He pointed with his Schmeisser at Ulrich.

Sam walked over to the last German. Ulrich lay on his back. His knees were bent and his tunic was torn and smoldering. Shredded by shrapnel. His face was a mess of cuts and bruises and the blood was already drying. His arms were bent at the elbows and his fingers were curled up like talons on a claw. Ulrich’s breathing was shallow and uneven. It seemed to take an intense effort to inhale and exhale.

The partisan stood over Ulrich and looked into his eyes. The German had never felt such intense hatred before. How ironic, Ulrich thought to himself. He couldn’t help smiling as he recognized the terrorist. Sam Roberts. His girlfriend’s brother. It seemed that Fate was not without a sense of humour. This was divine retribution, he thought grimly.

Sam looked at the wounded German lying on the floor. He applied first pressure, lightly squeezing the trigger. Sam remembered the first time that he had met Ulrich. At the New Year Eve Party in the Cathedral Hall. When he had learned that Alice was a Hun whore. But MacDonald had told him how Ulrich had begged and pleaded for Mrs. Mair and her daughter, Anne, to be spared when Zorn had wanted them to be thrown to the wolves. He had risked his life to prevent Anne and Sarah Mair from being given to the S.S. torturers to be raped and murdered. What did many people say-the only good German is a good German?

Sam released the pressure on the trigger and knelt down. He lowered his mouth to Ulrich’s ear. “Ulrich,” he whispered, “I want you to remember this moment.” Sam stood up.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Alan was completely flabbergasted. “Kill him and let’s get out of here.”

“No. Let’s go.” Sam turned to walk towards the door.

Alan swore dismissively and raised his Schmeisser to his shoulder but as he pulled the trigger Sam knocked the barrel out of the way sending the bullets thudding into the back wall.

“No,” Sam said sternly, pushing Alan’s machine gun towards the floor. “For Alice,” he whispered in his friend’s ear.

“Alright,” Alan turned on his safety catch. “For Alice. I hope that your act of mercy doesn’t come back to haunt us. I just hope that you know what you’re doing.”

So do I, Sam thought to himself. He nodded his head. “Come on. The Police are here. Let’s go.” He walked over to Zorn and bent down.

“What are you doing?”

Sam straightened up. He had dipped his fingers in Zorn’s blood.

“They’re friends. It’s alright.” Mason called to his men. “They’re Germans.” The Specials responded by blowing out a collective sigh of relief, uncocking their revolvers and switching on their safety catches.

Mason was sheltering behind Zorn’s staff car. Two German soldiers staggered out with their hands and weapons raised above their heads. Mason couldn’t help grimacing at the sight of them. They looked a bloody mess. Their faces, uniforms and hands were smeared with blood, gunpowder, soot and dirt.

“What happened?” Mason asked as the soldiers staggered down the stairs.

“Terrorist attack,” one of the Germans answered. “There are dead and wounded men inside.”

The soldiers lurched past Mason. “Sergeant Anderson!”

“Sir?”

“Call the hospital. Get some ambulances here immediately.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Come on.” Mason cocked his revolver, switched off the safety catch and led his men in at the double.

“Bloody hell!” One of the Specials swore as they entered the reception area. The room resembled the inside of an abattoir. It looked as if a mad artist had splashed buckets of blood all over the walls. The Specials had to tread carefully in order to avoid stepping on the writhing and wriggling bodies.

“Sergeant Dickson!” Mason rushed over to the injured policeman lying in the corner. An S.S. medic lay sprawled across the sergeant’s legs. Mason pushed the dead German off and knelt down beside him. He gently shook Dickson’s shoulder. Dickson’s eyelids slowly flickered open.

“What happened?” Mason gently asked.

“Terrorist attack…” Dickson croaked.

“Who were they? Did you recognize any of them?”

Dickson remembered the last words of Schmitt, the S.S. sturmbannfuhrer who spoke English uncannily well. “Dressed as German soldiers…”

“'Dressed as German soldiers?’” Mason repeated incredulously. He rocked back on his heels as if he had been slapped across the face. He raced to the entrance and jumped down the steps. But the soldiers were nowhere to be seen. They had disappeared into the darkness.

“Walker!” Mason shouted to a Special standing beside a Police car. “Did you see where those Jerries went?”

“No, sir.” Walker shook his head.

Mason saw an S.S. Staff car approaching. ‘Real’ Germans this time. He recognized the pennants fluttering from the aerial as the car pulled up to a stop beside him. Mason snapped to attention and saluted as the passenger emerged.

“Good evening, Inspector Mason.” Brigadefuhrer
Schuster
returned the salute and shook Mason’s hand.

“Good evening, sir.”

“What’s going on here?”

“Terrorist attack, sir.”

“Casualties?”

“All of the dead are German, sir. S.S. Another S.S. trooper is wounded and also a policeman.”

“My God,” Schuster said as he watched a pair of stretcher bearing Specials carry out a torn and tattered body. “What a mess.”

“Yes, sir. My men are bringing out the wounded now.” Mason looked toward the Police station steps. Two of his men were helping Dickson to walk down the steps.

“Where’s my man?” Schuster asked.

“Still inside, sir. They’ll be bringing him out next.”

Schuster nodded grimly. He watched as the injured policeman walked down the steps with his colleagues supporting him. Come on, where’s my man? He asked himself. I must remind Mason to bring out German wounded and dead first and then British. He idly glanced at another car, which was parked at the bottom of the steps. At first he had thought that it was a Police car, but then he had noticed the solitary pennant hanging limply from the aerial. S.S. And the car itself. A captured British Army staff car. He recognized the number plate. My God. Zorn. My evil apprentice. What the hell was he doing here? Up to no good, I suspect. Best to keep a lid on it whatever it is. The less people who know the better. “Inspector Mason. Please leave my man. We’ll take over now.”

“As you wish,” Mason said curtly with a slight bow.

Schuster turned to his aide-de-camp. “Sturmbannfuhrer Hassell, Sturmbannfuhrer Zorn may well be one of the casualties. We can’t afford to wait for the ambulances. Please take him to the hospital yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” Hassell started bellowing orders.

Two policemen emerged from the main entrance carrying a wounded man on a stretcher.

“There he is,” Hassell said. Two S.S. troopers exchanged places with the policemen “Wait a minute,” Hassell ordered. He pulled back a piece of material that had been draped over the injured man’s face. He turned around to face Schuster. “It’s not Zorn, sir. It’s Hauptsturmfuhrer Ulrich.”

Schuster slowly nodded. “Get him in the car, anyway. Where is Zorn?” ”

The explosion lifted Zorn’s car a metre off the ground and sent shrapnel, splinters of hot metal and glass flying in all directions. Schuster was thrown forwards onto his front as a tidal wave of heat hit him in the back. One of the S.S. stretcher-bearers fell to the ground and wriggled and writhed as he clutched his throat, vainly trying to stem a stream of blood that flowed out between his fingers. The other stretcher-bearer lay curled up on his side in the foetal position holding his stomach as he tried to stop his intestines from spilling out onto the pavement. All that remained of Hassell was a smoking and smouldering hunk of burnt meat covered in the tattered and torn remains of a uniform.

Schuster slowly raised his left hand to the back of his head. His ears were ringing and he was finding it difficult to focus properly. His hand touched skin. The blast must have burnt off some of his hair. His flesh was raw and tender. He brought his hand round to his face. The back of his hand was bleeding. Schuster slowly pushed himself up onto his knees and gradually stood up. He felt like a tired and crippled old man. Stricken with arthritis. He turned around. Zorn’s car was a burning wreck. A simmering rag covered corpse lay where Hassell had been standing. One of his S.S. troopers lay on his back with arms and legs spread akimbo like a crucified starfish. The other stretcher-bearer had stopped struggling. His steaming entrails lay coiled beside him like a pile of wet and sticky rope. Moans and groans came from all around. Schuster was surrounded by a sea of dead and dying police, Specials and S.S.

Schuster unbuttoned his holster with trembling hands of shock and hatred. He slowly drew out and cocked his Luger. He switched off the safety catch with shaking fingers and raised his arm until his pistol was pointing at the sky. Schuster howled at the moon like a wolf and squeezed and squeezed the trigger until he had run out of ammunition. The shots echoed around the Town Square, rebounding from wall to wall until the echoes eventually faded into the night.

“Jack… Jack, is that you?” Ansett asked weakly.

“Yes, Peter,” Robinson answered as he carefully rewrapped Ansett’s fingers in clean bandages. “You’re safe now,” he said gently.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in the bunker. You’re in the Crypt.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean ‘what happened?’” Robinson stopped bandaging Ansett’s fingers. “You were captured and tortured by the Germans.”

“I… I don’t remember.”

“What do you remember?” Robinson was starting to become worried. It was vital that Ansett remembered what he had told and what he had not told the Germans so that they could begin to limit the damage. Had he told them of their secret hiding place? Were the Germans surrounding and sealing off the Cathedral as they spoke?

“I remember being arrested in the High Street…” Ansett started, “… and I remember waking up with the sensation of extreme pain… of hearing agonized screaming.” Ansett abruptly stopped talking.

“And then?”

“I realized that the screaming was my own.”

Robinson thought for a moment. “Do you remember what they asked you?”

Ansett shook his head.

“Do you remember what you told them?”

“I…don’t remember a thing.”

“What was the last thing that you do remember?”

“You and the boys coming to get me…that’s all.

Robinson looked at his friend with concern. Ansett seemed to have forgotten or to have blocked out most, if not all, of the last four hours of his life from the time of his arrest at approximately five p.m. until his rescue at nine o’clock. Robinson tried to jog Ansett’s memory. “Peter,” he said gently, “David Mair was arrested and murdered by the Jerries.” He didn’t have to spell out that he was tortured to death. Ansett would have suffered the same fate if he had not been rescued.

“Oh my God,” Ansett moaned. “I killed him…” he buried his face in his hands. “I recruited him for the Resistance.”

Robinson grabbed his friend by both shoulders. “Listen to me, Peter. You didn’t kill him-the Huns killed him.”

“I also recruited Jock MacDonald.”

“We know. Jock told the boys that you had been arrested.”

“Things are going to have to change, Jack.” Ansett said. Some of the old steel was returning to his voice. “We can’t do this on our own anymore. I’m going to be useless to you for at least a couple of weeks…” he held up his bloody fingers.

“Here come the boys,” Robinson said. He turned around and picked up his Schmeisser. He cocked the weapon and pointed the machine gun at the trap door in the ceiling. He heard the first whistled bars to “I’ll take the low road and you’ll take the high road…”

“Hallo, boy,” Ansett croaked as Alan started to climb down the ladder.

“Mr. Ansett.” Alan reached the bottom. “How do you feel?”

“I feel like someone who’s just had his fingernails pulled out.” He managed a weak smile as held up blood stained bandaged wrapped hands.

The boys laughed. They were reassured to learn that Ansett had not lost his dark sense of humour.

“What happened to your face?” Ansett pointed at Sam.

“It’s nothing…

“I know.” Ansett said. “It’s not your blood.”

Everyone chuckled.

Sam walked over to Ansett. He gently placed a hand on Ansett’s shoulder. “How are you?”

Ansett was touched by Sam’s concern.

“I’m alright.” Ansett placed his own hand on top of Sam’s and squeezed. “All things considered.”

“We killed Zorn,” Sam stated simply.

But we let Ulrich live, Alan almost added.

“Good.” Ansett nodded. “I’m glad that he’s dead. He was a nasty piece of work. Even for a German. I’d dance on his grave if I could. But I won’t be doing any dancing for a while.” He looked down sadly at the ruined nailess wrecks that used to be his feet.

“What now?” Alan asked.

“On April 23rd, St. George’s Day, Reichsstatthalter Scheimann and Mosley will be visiting Hereward…” Ansett started.

“But someone else is joining them?” Robinson asked.

“Correct.” Ansett confirmed. “The King is joining them.”

“The King!” Sam stood up with shock.

“The King. Edward is coming here?” Alan asked.

“Yes. Together with Queen Wallis.” Ansett answered.

“My God. Kaiser Eddie himself.” Sam collapsed back into his chair. His legs felt as if they were made of rubber. All strength seemed to have left them.