Young Lions

by Andrew Mackay

  Young Lions

  Andrew Mackay

  AuthorHouse™

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1-800-839-8640

  © 2011 Andrew Mackay. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  First published by AuthorHouse 8/8/2011

  ISBN: 978-1-4567-7437-0 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4772-1767-2 (eBook)

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

  and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Contents

  ~ Dedication ~

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ~ Dedication ~

  Young Lions is dedicated to the memory of my grandfathers, John Mackay of the Seaforth Highlanders and Sheik Kassim Khan of the Hong Kong Volunteer Regiment who both fought for their country in the Second World War.

  Chapter One

  “We don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, sir.” Witherspoon shook his head as he handed the order back to Lieutenant-Colonel Hook.

  “That’s what the Persians said about the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, Roy.” Hook said grimly as he folded up the order. “London needs to gather enough troops to launch a counter attack to push the Nazis back into the sea. I’ll sacrifice the lives of everyman in this battalion to buy Headquarters more time. Including my own life and including yours. Especially yours, Roy.” Hook continued with a twinkle in his eye.

  Witherspoon laughed at Hook’s black humour. “Zero chance of success, zero chance of survival,” Witherspoon shrugged his shoulders, “what are we waiting for?” He grinned as his eyes lit up like a stick of dynamite. “Strength and honour, Colonel.” Witherspoon stretched out his hand.

  “Strength and honour, Roy.” Hook smiled as he shook Witherspoon’s hand. Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Hook M.C. stepped forward and gazed out over the sea of faces that made up the Third Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fen Fusiliers (RRiFFs).

  “As you know, the Germans began landing on the south east coast of England yesterday,” Hook announced. “Unfortunately, we have not been able to hold them on the beaches…” murmuring broke out amongst the assembled troops and rippled through the men like a wave.

  “Silence in the ranks!” Bellowed R.S.M. Witherspoon.

  “Thank you, R.S.M.,” Hook continued. “I have further bad news… at dawn this morning, German forces landed at King’s Lynn…” The RRiFFs reacted as if they had been physically slapped across the face.

  “How can they be so near?” Alan Mitchell asked his best friend Sam Roberts.

  “They’re less than an hour away by car,” Sam answered as he felt a hot jet of urine flow down his inside leg in a torrent and form a rapidly expanding pool on the ground. As he blushed in acute shame and embarrassment he smelt a sudden waft of ammonia drift over him and he realized that he was not the only one to have pissed himself.

  “The Germans are heading south towards us here at Hereward,” Hook continued. “We are the only ones who can stop them from taking Cambridge. We march north towards King's Lynn immediately.”

  As the RRiFFs marched through the streets of Hereward Sam spotted his father and mother and his elder sister, Alice, in the crowd.

  Alice thrust a flower into the upturned barrel of his rifle. “Good luck, boys. Be careful. Corporal Thompson, look after my two baby brothers for me,” Alice said as she playfully ruffled their hair.

  “I will, Miss Roberts,” Corporal Thompson, the boys’ section commander, promised as Alice planted a quick kiss on the cheeks of both boys.

  “Sam, Alan, come back in one piece. I love you both.” Michelle Roberts sobbed through tear stained eyes as she hugged her boy and her surrogate son, Alan, in a ferocious bear hug. Alan had spent many a happy week end and holiday with the Roberts household and was regarded as a member of the family.

  Sam and Alan had to gently but firmly prise Mrs. Roberts’ hands away from their necks or else the boys risked being physically ripped from the column of marching men. “Goodbye, mum,” Sam shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t worry: We’ll be alright.”

  “I’ll look after him, Mrs. Roberts!” Alan promised. Children cheered and ran scampering alongside the marching troops, weaving in and out of the files, threatening to trip them up.

  Sam spotted his father, Alex Roberts, standing at attention with his right arm raised in salute. “I wish that I was coming with you, lads,” he said as he tapped his left leg with his walking stick.

  “I know, dad,” Sam said. Alex Roberts had suffered a leg wound whilst serving as a Captain with the RRiFFs in the last war.

  “Strength and honour, Sam,” Mr. Roberts said as he shook his son’s hand. Sam replied with the Fusilier motto as his father shook Alan’s hand.

  “Strength and honour, Mr. Roberts,” Alan replied.

  Alex Roberts’ eyes welled up with tears as his youngest son marched off to war. “God bless you, lads,” he croaked.

  “This is going to be a long slog northwards,” Sam said as the Fusiliers left the cheering crowds behind. He awkwardly pulled his soggy trouser leg away from his damp skin.

  Alan Mitchell and Sam Roberts were fifteen year old school boys at St. John’s Academy located in the medieval market town of Hereward in county Cambridgeshire. Alan Mitchell and his younger brother David were inmates at “Cromwell” Boarding House. Sam Roberts and his older sister Alice were day pupils from an old Hereward family and had been educated at St. John’s for generations. Sam’s three older brothers had also attended St. John’s. Both Alan and Sam were second year Officer Cadets in the St.John’s Academy Officer Training Corps which had amalgamated with the hastily raised local Home Guard unit, the Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers (RRiFFs) 3rd Battalion (Home Guard).

  Richard Hook still possessed the ramrod straight back, firm hand shake and rapid pace of walking which stood him out as having been a soldier. Hook had fought in the First World War and after he had been demobbed he had studied Chemistry at the University of Glasgow. After graduation, he trained as a teacher and was offered a position at his old school, St. John’s Academy. Principal Teacher of Chemistry, Mr. Richard Hook, had been the Command
ing Officer of the School O.T.C. for fifteen years and at the outbreak of the war he had been promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel and had become the C.O. of The Third Battalion The Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers (Home Guard).

  “Hallo? What’s going on?” Hook asked suddenly.

  There was a commotion ahead. The troops in front had stopped marching.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Mason?”

  “This is Sergeant Downham, sir,” Captain Mason, Sam and Alan’s company commander, replied. “King’s Lynn Home Guard. He says that the Germans have captured the port and are at this very moment heading down this road straight towards us.”

  Downham came to a position of attention and reported “The Huns attacked at dawn and took us completely by surprise, sir. They’ve captured the port and killed or captured most of the Home Guard. The survivors are streaming down the road now along with hundreds of refugees. The roads are completely clogged and blocked up with refugees. They’re running away from the Huns like frightened sheep.”

  “Enemy forces?” Hook asked.

  “From what I saw, sir, the advance guard is made up of a motorcycle battalion mounted on a mixture of motorcycles with a sidecar armed with a machine gun and single motorcycles. I don’t know what else they have got, I’m afraid.”

  “Where are they now, Sergeant?”

  “Not far up the road, Colonel. Listen, you can hear their machine guns.”

  Hook put his hand up to his ear and shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up the road. “Machine guns. Yes, I can hear them. Clearing their way through the refugees. The swine.” Hook clenched his teeth in sudden anger. Refugees were starting to flow down the sides of the Battalion with the Fusiliers acting as a breakwater.

  “Sir, shall I clear the refugees from the road?” Witherspoon asked.

  Hook thought quickly. “No, R.S.M. It’s an impossible task. Get the battalion into Wake and take up the position of a snap ambush. The Huns may appear at any moment. Get me the company commanders at the double.”

  “Will you two simmer down in there?” Corporal Thompson shouted from the next room. “Shut up and keep your eyes peeled and your ears open for the Jerries.”

  “‘Keep your ears open?’” Alan repeated, “I can’t hear a damn thing over the racket that the refugees are making.” Sam nodded his head in agreement.

  There was a constant sound of babies and toddlers crying and parents cajoling and pleading with their moody broods. The refugee column weaved its way in and out of the dirt and debris left by the people who had already passed through the village of Wake like a giant wounded worm.

  “Listen in,” Thompson hissed. “Here they come!” A loud burst of machine gun fire tore through the air. Children started screaming, women began to cry and men grabbed their families and hurried along the road. The refugees abandoned their possessions and started running like lemmings.

  The first German motorcycle combination sped towards Wake Bridge, the gunner firing his machine gun into the air above the heads of the refugees.

  “Right boys, listen in,” Thompson poked his head through the door into the room. “Only open fire when the whistle blows. Any questions?”

  “No, Corporal!” The boys answered in unison.

  “Alright lads,” Thompson looked into the face of Alan and Sam in turn. “Keep your heads down and your powder dry. Strength and honour, lads.”

  “Strength and honour!” The boys chorused.

  Alan turned around to Sam. “I’ll see you when it’s over.”

  “Not if I see you first.” Sam smiled grimly. The boys shook hands with exaggerated formality.

  Alan and Sam took up their positions side by side at a window. They held their rifles with the butts pressed tightly against their shoulders. Their hearts beat louder and louder as beads of sweat ran down their faces and stung their eyes. Sweat chaffed their collars and made their trousers cling to their legs.

  The sudden whistle blast made the boys jump. “Rapid fire!” Bellowed Thompson. Alan found a German at the end of his foresight and squeezed the trigger. The Nazi fell backwards off his bike like a lifeless puppet.

  Alan had laid out his .22 rounds on the windowsill and was frantically reloading, working the bolt action as soon as he had fired. The street was rapidly filling up with twitching and twisting dead and dying Germans, as the Fusiliers poured rapid fire into the traffic jammed enemy. Nazis lay slouched over the handlebars of the motorcycles or lay half in, half out of the sidecars. Very few Germans were managing to fire back. They had been slowed to a virtual walking pace by the wall of refugees that had continued to clog the way and by the debris on the road. But here and there, amongst the wrecked and burning motorcycles, isolated groups of Nazis were fighting back.

  “Grenade!” Thompson shouted.

  A German potato masher grenade cart wheeled through the air – hit the wall of the house, rebounded and exploded back in the street. “Here comes another! Take cover!” Another grenade flew through the air, and sailed through Thompson’s window. The grenade blew up and shrapnel whistled through the air.

  “I’m hit!” Shouted Alan as he dropped his rifle and put his hands up to his eyes. He collapsed and hit the ground as Sam hovered over him.

  “Where are you hit?” Sam asked with his hands on Alan’s shoulders.

  “In my face. I can’t see! I can’t see!” Alan screamed as he sat sprawled on the floor, blood streaming from his face down his hands and arms.

  “Take your hands away, Alan!” Sam ordered through the smoke, his ears ringing from the impact of the grenade explosion.

  “I’m blind! I can’t see! I can’t see!” Alan wailed.

  “Take your hands away, Al, let me look at you,” Sam insisted. He gently laid his hands on Alan’s and prised his shaking fingers away. “It’s alright Al,” Sam reassured him.

  “I’m blind…” Alan moaned.

  Sam knelt down and examined Alan’s face. It was covered with blood. He emptied some water from his water bottle onto the corner of his sleeve and wiped away some of the blood. Sam stopped wiping and examined the wound. “It’s a piece of shrapnel. It’s cut you on your cheek, and it’s sliced a nice clean wound. Lots of blood, but not very deep. The medics should be able to sew you up with half a dozen stitches.”

  “What about my eyes?” Alan asked. His black hair was matted thick with blood.

  “They’re fine. Your eyes were caked shut by the blood, that’s all, Al,” Sam reassured him.

  “Oh my God!” Alan’s bloody hand went to his mouth. “Corporal Thompson!”

  Sam bent over and ran through to the next room, remembering to keep his head down as a brace of bullets buzzed through the open window and drilled a neat line of holes in the back wall. He bent over Thompson’s silent and still form. Sam turned him over. Thompson’s wide-open eyes stared back at him. “He’s dead, Al.”

  “And Willy?” Alan asked about Thompson’s partner.

  Sam examined Willy, who lay on his front next to Thompson. His back looked like a bloody sieve and was still smoking. “He’s a goner too.”

  “Christ!” Alan muttered, clutching a torn piece of his uniform shirt to his war wound. “What do we do now?”

  “We keep fighting and we pay those dirty murdering Nazi bastards back for Corporal Thompson and Willy.”

  The boys had hardly resumed firing when they heard three long loud whistle blasts which signaled the cease fire.

  “Alan, Sam – are you alright?” A bodiless voice came from upstairs.

  “Yes, Lance-Corporal,” Alan answered. “But Corporal Thompson and Willy are dead.”

  The boys heard a curse. “Bad luck. I’m taking over command of the section. Check the enemy dead. We don’t want any prisoners. We’ll cover you, but be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. Grab any Hun weapons and amm
unition that we can use.”

  “Yes, Lance-Corporal,” Sam answered.

  Alan and Sam cautiously poked their heads out of the door and slowly crept out into the street with their rifle butts pulled tight into their shoulders. Other Fusiliers were doing the same. Alan and Sam stepped over dead and dying Germans and prodded them with their rifles. Isolated shots echoed down the street as the RRiFFs admistered the coup de grace to wounded enemy soldiers.

  Alan returned to the house with two rifles slung over one shoulder and two sets of webbing over the other. Sam staggered into the house with several belts of ammunition draped around his neck and carrying a MG 42 machine gun in his arms.

  “Blimey lads – who do you think you are, Pancho Villa? All you boys need is a sombrero and a handlebar moustache and you would look like Mexican banditos!” Lance-Corporal Vincent exclaimed as he walked down the stairs. “It looks like you’ve captured the arsenal of the entire Nazi army!”

  Alan and Sam grinned at Vincent like a pair of Cheshire cats.

  “I’ll have that!” Vincent exclaimed with a triumphant look on his face, as he grabbed the machine gun.

  “Hey!” Sam protested. “That’s not fair! I found it! Finders keepers!” He vainly tried to hold onto it.

  “Listen Sam,” Vincent tried to reason with him. “Do you know how to fire it? No, I thought not, so give it here.”

  Sam reluctantly surrendered the weapon like a defeated general surrendering his sword.

  “Good lad. Alright, lads, we’re moving out immediately.” The rest of the Section came down the stairs. “Let’s go.” Vincent and his Fusiliers filed out of the house and started threading its way through Wake High Street. The scene was that of utter carnage. There were dead Germans and crashed and burning motorcycles lying everywhere. Spent cartridges littered the ground and pools of congealed blood were already starting to attract flies in the heat. The RRiFFs trudged through the smoking and burning village towards Fairfax.