Young Lions (30 page)

“Keep going!” Kaltenbranner screamed in Schlagater’s ear as the A.P.C. screeched past the lorry. Hirschfeld popped up, grabbed hold of the rear MG 42 and poured half a belt of 7.92 millimeter rounds into Warlimont’s platoon headquarters group. Feldwebel Johst and the platoon radio operator were killed outright. Warlimont collapsed onto the road as the second half-track screamed past. Soldiers leapt out from the bushes at the sight of their platoon commander being cut down and ran onto the road. Some kept firing at the A.P.C.s as the half-tracks disappeared over the horizon whilst others raced towards the mortally wounded Warlimont.

He clutched his stomach and forced the words out through pain clenched teeth. “Tell headquarters…half tracks heading towards Hereward…partisans.”

“Ulrich! Get the Quick Reaction Company ready!” Schuster barked down the phone. “We’ve just intercepted a contact report from an Army patrol. They’ve exchanged fire with partisans who are traveling in two captured half-tracks towards Hereward. If we’re fast then we can set up a road block before the Army and claim the credit for killing or capturing the partisans.”

“Yes, sir.” Ulrich slammed down the phone. He ran out of his office, grabbing his Schmeisser and helmet on the way out.

Ulrich raised his binoculars and peered over the top of the hastily erected roadblock. There. Two half-tracks. Heading this way. And what could he hear? He wasn’t sure. But it sounded like singing. Yes, Ulrich said to himself. Singing. Definitely. By Christ, these partisans were cocky bastards. Singing at the tops of their voices as if they owned the place.

“Right. We’ll see about that. We’ll wipe their grins off their faces. Ready?” Ulrich asked.

“Yes, sir!” The obersturmfuhrer in command of the two 75 millimeter IeIG Infantry artillery guns answered.

“Fire at will.”

The first 75 millimeter shell tore through the cab of Kaltenbranner’s A.P.C. and exploded in the main passenger compartment, blowing the obersturmfuhrer, Scharfuhrer Hirschfeld and Schlageter, the driver, and the rest of the crew into a thousand bloody bits.

The driver of the second half-track swerved to the right and narrowly missed ploughing into the burning wreck in front of him. The rottenfuhrer in charge took a second to react before he opened fire with the forward machine gun.

The rounds whistled over Ulrich’s head causing him to duck. Two of the 75 millimeter gun crew were not so lucky and were thrown backwards like bloody rag dolls.

The second 75 millimeter gun opened fire. The cabin disappeared in a shower of smoke and shrapnel as the second burning A.P.C. stuttered to a shuddering stop, carried forward by its own momentum, the driver dead in his seat, burnt to a blackened crisp. Several of the storm troopers leapt over the side of the half-track in a futile attempt to escape. They were all on fire and their screams cut through the night air. The massed machine guns of Ulrich’s Quick Reaction Company mercifully ended their tortured cries.

“Still no sign of the missing men?”

“No, sir.”

Ulrich stood at attention in front of Schuster’s desk in his fourth floor office. Schuster sat in his customary position with his back to the balcony with a lit cigar dangling out of a corner of his mouth and a glass full of the amber liquid in his right hand.

“Let’s not beat about the bush,” Schuster said. “You know, I know and the Brigade knows that the ‘Lost Patrol’ are not going to turn up this side of Judgment Day, don’t we, Ulrich?”

“No, sir,” Ulrich replied. That’s because Obersturmfuhrer Kaltenbranner and the charred remains of the rest of his platoon had been towed in their still smoking half-tracks to a forest and had been unceremoniously dumped like burnt trash amongst the trees. Kaltenbranner’s Company Commander had informed headquarters that the patrol was missing. It had not taken long for H.Q. to put two and two together and realize that either partisans had destroyed Kaltenbranner’s platoon and had hijacked the two A.P.C.s or Ulrich’s Quick Reaction Company had blown Kaltenbranner to kingdom come with their cannons. Publicly, everyone preferred to give the incident the benefit of doubt. Privately, everyone realized that this was another example of Germans killing Germans. In Hereward’s case, however, these Friendly Fire incidents seemed to be the norm rather than the exception. Official S.S. records would show that Obersturmfuhrer Kaltenbranner and his men were missing, presumed killed by partisans, and not killed by fellow S.S. storm troopers.

It was time. Rathdowne took his torch out of his pocket and flashed the Morse code signal into the sky. All’s clear. No Jerries around. It was safe to land.

He heard a whoosh as the glider headed towards him. In the darkness he could sense rather than see its shape. Rathdowne rapidly leapt out of the way as the glider made contact with the ground like a flat stone skimming across the surface of a lake. The glider ploughed up the ground in front of it digging giant furrows into the earth before it finally came to a shuddering halt.

Rathdowne ran towards the glider as shadowy shapes emerged. A soldier ran towards him.

“Welcome to England.” Rathdowne stretched out his hand. “Merlin.”

“Napoleon.” Berreud shook his hand, cradling his Schmeisser in the crook of his left hand. He and his men were all armed with German weapons to make resupply of ammunition easier. Berreud turned to watch the sky. “Here comes the second glider.”

Rathdowne and Berreud ducked instinctively as the glider swooped down low over them. “Mon Dieu, he’s coming in too fast!” Berreud exclaimed. Berrued’s commandos and Rathdowne’s Resistance watched with open mouths filled with horror as the glider plummeted towards the ground like a stone.

“Pull up!” Rathdowne screamed.

“He’s coming in too steep!” Berreud shouted.

The nose of the giant Hamilcar glider impacted with the ground and the whole glider immediately flipped tail over cockpit and cart wheeled across the field. A massive explosion tore through the air as the glider exploded. Dirt and debris fell to the ground like giant snowflakes.

“What was she carrying?” Rathdowne asked as he got to his feet.

“A six pounder anti-tank gun and towing vehicle,” Berreud answered as he brushed clumps of dirt from his paratrooper smock.

“And the crew?”

Berreud sadly shook his head. “Pilot and co-Pilot. What a terrible waste. There’s no way that they will have survived that. What now?”

“Get your men onto the two lorries. The Huns may be here any minute.”

“The S.S. maintains that Oberleutnant Warlimont and his men were killed by partisans who had already killed the members of an S.S. platoon, stolen their uniforms and hijacked their half tracks.” There was no need for von Schnakenberg to mention the name of the S.S. platoon commander. Everyone in Hereward knew of Obersturmfuhrer Kaltenbranner and the infamous friendly fire incident when S.S. artillery had opened up and destroyed S.S. A.P.C.s. It went some way towards relieving the bitterness that the men of Erich Warlimont’s company and regiment, the Potsdam Grenadiers, felt at the murder of their comrade. Some way towards relieving the bitterness, but not all of the way. Kaltenbranner’s death would not make up for Warlimont’s murder.

A murmur of discontent swept through the packed ranks of the assembled officers of von Schnakenberg’s Brigade like rolling thunder.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” von Schnakenberg said. “I understand your frustrations, but this is not the time or the place to discuss these issues. Let’s get back to the matter in hand. Let’s concentrate on the Royal Visit in three day’s time.”

The mumbling gradually died out, but von Schnakenberg could tell that his officers were far from satisfied. The oberstleutnants in charge of the three regiments under von Schnakenberg’s command had already informed him that they were barely managing to keep the lid on the bubbling and boiling sense of anger and frustration that their men were feeling. Anger at the S.S. for the injustices that they had suffered and frustration at the Army’s impotency and the Army’s perceived inability to act in response to S.S. depredations and provocations. The feeling had spread throughout the ranks like an epidemic and had even infected the officer corps as von Schnakenberg had witnessed. The soldiers were like caged dogs and the senior officers were barely managing to keep hold of their leashes. The leashes were becoming increasingly stretched and stressed. The oberstleutnants admitted to von Schnakenberg that they didn’t know what to do.

The briefing continued, the words echoed around the vast interior of Hereward Cathedral Hall. Von Schnakenberg finally finished and dismissed the men. As the officers stood up and gathered their pencils and notepads, von Schnakenberg shook the hands of his senior officers.

“Colonel Dahrendorf,” von Schnakenberg addressed the commanding officer of the Motorcycle Battalion, the regiment responsible for escorting the convoy. “A word in your ear, if I may.”

“Certainly, sir.” Dahrendorf moved towards him.

Von Schnakenberg waited until everyone was out of earshot.

“Kurt, I understand that you’re a Classics man.”

“Yes, sir.” Dahrendorf smiled. “I studied Ancient Greek and Latin at the University of Dusseldorf before I joined the Army. Why?”

“Who are they?” The gunner asked the armoured car commander.

“Police,” the commander answered.

“Not Army or S.S.?” The gunner asked nervously. It was common knowledge that the Resistance often disguised themselves as German soldiers.

“No.” The commander shook his head. “They’re definitely Police. They appear to have crashed into a ditch.”

The gunner looked through his vision slit. He could see a Police lorry with a few policemen standing beside it. The front of the lorry had rolled into a ditch running parallel to the road. It looked genuine and innocent enough.

“Where the hell’s Hoepner?” The commander asked.

“He should be right behind us,” the gunner said.

“Well, he’s bloody well not.” The commander huffed.

“They probably stopped for a piss.”

“Geiger,” The commander shouted to the driver, “pull in at the back of the lorry.”

Geiger drove the armoured car to the other side of the road and pulled in about five meters beyond the back of the lorry.

“Alright, lads. Everybody out. Let’s see if we can give the Tommies a hand.”

“But Scharfuhrer Schillendorf,” Geiger said. “What about the new Standing Orders that we should be extra vigilant, sir. Military Police Units are only permitted to examine the identification documents of one half of a unit at any one time. This allows the other half of the unit to keep guard and react if the M.P.s turn out to be Resistance.”

“Well, they aren’t Military Police, Geiger.” Schillendorf hauled himself out of the turret. “They’re not German soldiers or even Tommies dressed as German soldiers, they’re English policemen, pure and simple.” He continued talking as he jumped to the ground. “Honestly, Geiger, my grandmother has bigger balls than you. Stop sounding like an old woman,” Schillendorf joked good-naturedly. “Get your scrawny ass out here and bring some rope and the tool box.”

“Yes, Scharfuhrer.” But Geiger was not convinced.

“Here they come,” Sam whispered to MacDonald. “It’s working.”

“Don’t count your chickens yet,” MacDonald warned.

The armoured car crew started to walk towards them.

“Good morning, Officers. What seems to be the problem?”

The German’s words caught MacDonald and the boys off guard. They had not expected any of the Germans to speak such good English. MacDonald’s personal radar began to pick up danger signals: how loudly had he and Sam been speaking? Could the German have over heard the conversation?

“We crashed into this ditch, Scharfuhrer,” MacDonald replied. “I wonder if it would be possible for you and your men to give us a hand.”

“We’d be delighted, Sergeant,” Schillendorf said.

“You speak very good English, Scharfuhrer,” MacDonald said.

“Thank you.” Schillendorf bowed his head. “I worked as a waiter on a North Sea Ferry before the War.” He was pleased that the Police officer had complimented him on his English. Schillendorf relished the opportunity to practice his English and spoke it as often as he could. In fact, he was an Anglophile and considered it a tragedy that Britain and Germany were at war. He switched back to German. “Geiger! Attach that rope to the back of their lorry and then attach it to the rear of ours.”

Machine gun rounds rudely interrupted Geiger’s actions. He turned in time to see Schillendorf being shot. The next burst of bullets hammered into his chest. “I told you so…” he said bitterly. They were the last thoughts to pass through Geiger’s head before his vision clouded over.

MacDonald stood over Geiger and looked into his lifeless staring eyes.

“A job well done.” Sam walked up to stand beside him.

Grant Smith appeared beside them cradling the MG 42 in his arms that he had used to cut down the Germans. “Like taking sweets from a–”

A burst of machine gun fire tore through the air. The
rounds punched into MacDonald’s chest and lifted him bodily into the air sending him flying five feet backwards to land in a crumpled heap on the road.

“Half track!” Sam shouted. “Take cover!” He and Smith dived to the side as more bullets zipped through the air like angry hornets. “Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know,” Smith answered as an A.P.C. bore down on them. German soldiers were hanging out of the sides pouring out a wall of rounds.

“Where’s Al?” Sudden panic seized Sam and he felt his chest tighten as he realized that he hadn’t seen his friend since MacDonald was hit.

A large bang made Sam jump as the captured armoured car’s barrel boomed flame and smoke. The cannon round narrowly missed the half-track and exploded behind it.

“Al!” Sam smiled.

But the A.P.C. kept coming. Sam realized that he was not alone. Napoleon and his men had come along for the ride to stretch their legs and to see how the Resistance ran things around here. Now several of the commandos lay beside him and were pumping bullets towards the Germans.