Young Lions

by Andrew Mackay

  The two officers turned and faced each other. They consulted their wristwatches. The second hand of the Town Hall clock tick tocked around to one o’clock. The crowd stood in silence as the bells chimed thirteen times.

  The S.S.sturmbannfuhrer nodded at his Army counterpart. It’s time. The S.S.sturmbannfuhrer about turned and gave the order to the gallows guard. The soldiers standing to either side of the first four hostages grabbed them by the arms and moved then towards the trapdoors.

  One of the condemned men started to struggle. “No! No!” He screamed. “I don’t want to die!” His pitiful cries drifted out over the crowd. His legs seemed to turn to jelly as he fell to the floor.

  “Pick him up!” The S.S.sturmbannfuhrer ordered. The guards tried to haul him up to his feet, but he was too heavy. “Help them!” An S.S. soldier left his position by the sturmbannfuhrer to aid his comrades.

  “Please God!” The hostage wailed. “Don’t let me die!”

  The hair on the back of the necks of the bayonet fixed soldiers stood on end. They did not have to understand English to recognize the cries of a man begging for his life. Several of the soldiers facing the crowd turned around and took a step backwards to look at the condemned man.

  “Eyes front!” An officer shouted.

  “Turn around!” Another echoed.

  Too late. Too many soldiers had stepped backwards. The double line that had previously been straight now resembled a sidewinder snake. Non-Commissioned – Officers stepped out of the line to shout and shove and push and punch their curiously morbid men back into their ranks. But the officers and N.C.O.s in their quest to restore order had themselves created gaps in the line.

  The crowd sensed the sudden vulnerability of the Germans and surged forwards until they were barging and banging against the barrier. The soldiers and civilians were almost eyeball to eyeball. The soldiers’ eyes were wide open and bulging with fear. The civilians’ eyes were wide open and blood shot with hatred.

  The struggling man lost control of his bowels. The stench of faeces wafted over the waiting crowd as the condemned man soiled himself and fainted. Another soldier left his position beside the S.S.sturmbannfuhrer to haul the unconscious man to his feet. But what to do? The sturmbannfuhrer asked himself. They couldn’t hang an unconscious man, could they? Wouldn’t that be breaking the rules? He bit his lip in indecision. Whilst he was mauling this over in his mind an S.S. motorcycle dispatch rider mounted the stairs, walked across the gallows platform, saluted and gave the sturmbannfuhrer an envelope.

  “What now, for God’s sake?” The sturmbannfuhrer was exasperated. “I’m rather busy here.”

  The dispatch rider ignored the sturmbannfuhrer’s hostility and kept an expressionless poker face. “From Brigadefuhreur Schuster. You are to read the letter immediately.”

  “Christ. My hands are tied up at the moment. I’ll deal with this later.” He thrust the envelope inside the breast pocket of his tunic.

  “But sir!” The dispatch rider protested. “My instructions were to make sure that you read…”

  “Drag him to the rear.” The sturmbannfuhrer interrupted, pointing at the unconscious prisoner. “Bring another hostage forward to take his place. And while we’re at it, drag this idiot to the rear as well.” He pointed at the dispatch rider. “One more word out of you, son, and I’ll string you up with the rest of them!” He threatened. “Get him out of my sight!”

  The two S.S. troopers who had originally been guarding the unconscious man and the two S.S. soldiers who had left their position to help each picked up a limb and dragged the helpless hostage from the platform. Another two storm troopers left their positions to pull another prisoner forward. Yet another S.S. man left the sturmbannfuhrer to escort the dispatch rider to the rear.

  But the struggling hostage had set a precedent. The man who was being brought forward to replace him began to scream and shout and kick out his legs. A lucky kick caught the knee of an S.S. guard who collapsed with howls of pain as he clutched his damaged kneecap. The prisoner’s hands were tied behind his back. He was off balance and unsteady on his feet. He refused to cooperate and slumped to the ground. The sturmbannfuhrer detailed another two of his men to help. The hostage continued to struggle. The soldiers couldn’t pull him to his feet. A storm trooper lost his patience and snapped. There was a sickening crunch as the hard wood and steel of the soldier’s rifle butt smacked into the soft flesh and bone of the hostage’s head. The man’s screams were cut off abruptly like a gramophone record whose needle had been broken.

  The crowd sighed like a huge wounded primeval beast. The crowd was no longer a collection of isolated independent individuals. The crowd had become a living breathing organism with a heart and a soul. A single entity. A creature made of flesh and blood. And that blood now surged through its body. Pumping up towards its brain. A brain which now thought. A brain with a will. A brain that wanted revenge. The crowd ebbed and surged against the barrier like a wave breaking on the beach. Each successive surge wore away at the confidence of the soldiers facing them like a wave wearing away at a cliff face. The wave would find the weakest point in the cliff face and would create a hole and cause the cliff face to crumble. The soldiers would erode-it was simply a matter of time.

  The crowd found the weakest point. The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer now only had one man standing beside him. He seemed oblivious to his complete lack of protection. The crowd pushed against the barrier and forced it to bend just beyond the right hand limit of the sturmbannfuhrer’s peripheral vision. The sturmbannfuhrer did not notice. His attention was focused solely on the struggling hostages and getting the prisoners to the gallows. The front rank of S.S. troops involuntarily took a step back. They caught the rear rank unawares and some soldiers were pushed of balance and stumbled and fell. The crowd pushed again. A young storm trooper raised his rifle and tried to jab his bayonet at a face in the crowd but the lunge was off balance and over reached itself. The man evaded the clumsy thrust, grabbed the rifle barrel and wrenched the weapon straight out the hands of the bewildered soldier. The S.S. trooper standing next to the recruit was absolutely horrified and reacted instinctively. He emptied the entire contents of his Schmessier machine gun into the man’s stomach. The soldiers near the machine gunner opened fire into the crowd at point blank range. Men, women and children were knocked down like stalks of wheat cut down by a giant scythe. The dead and the dying lay in a tangled, torn and bloody mound as the people standing behind them panicked, turned around and began to run.

  The first shots acted as a signal. Shots rippled along the double line of S.S. and Army soldiers like a Mexican wave as they fired into the helpless civilians, hurrying to escape from the Square. The soldiers were swearing and hurling abuse at the stampeding people as they released all of their pent up rage and anger.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer shouted. But the men ignored him. They were pumped up and full of blood lust. They calmly replaced their empty magazines with full ones as if they were at the shooting range. As soon as they had loaded their new magazines they continued to pour their fire into the retreating crowd.

  Only when there were no more people to kill did the soldiers stop firing. Their breathing began to slow and their heart beats gradually returned to normal as the blood lust seeped out of them like air escaping from a balloon.

  “My God…what have we done?” The S.S. sturm-bannfuhrer mumbled to himself under his breath. He gazed out over the scene of total death and destruction that he and his men had created. He walked down the stairs from the gallows platform to the ground. He did not notice the Army major following him. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he gazed up at the hangman’s nooses dangling at the end of the ropes. The empty hangman’s nooses. They had failed to hang a single hostage. He shook his head.

  “Major.”

  The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer was jolted out of his d
aydreaming. “Yes. What is it? “

  “The orders, sir.” The dispatch rider seemed to materialize at his elbow like a genie. “I must confirm to the Brigadefuhreur that you read and carried out his orders.” The dispatch rider insisted.

  The sturmbannfuhrer found the envelope in his breast pocket and took out the envelope. It was addressed to him. “Urgent!” He read. He recognized the Brigadefuhreur’s handwriting. His eyes glided over the writing.

  “Sir,” the dispatch rider said. “My instructions were that the Army major was also to read the orders.”

  The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer let the letter fall from his fingers. The paper fluttered gently to the ground and landed before the dispatch rider could catch it. The messenger swore. He picked up the paper and handed it to the Army major.

  The shot made the Army major drop the paper. He was covered in a shower of skull fragments, brain tissue and globules of blood. He followed the sound of the gunfire. The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer was lying on the ground. The top of his skull was missing. His Luger lay in the lifeless fingers of his right hand. He had stuck his pistol in his mouth and blown his head off.

  The man was debriefed at Glencourse Barracks in Edinburgh the day after he had arrived in Scotland. He described the battles that he had fought with pride. He described his capture with shame and he described the massacre of his men with anger. He talked of his escape. Of how the men with whom he had traveling had been killed. The weeks that he spent hiding during the day, walking during the night, trekking across the countryside, scavenging for scraps of food from rubbish bins. Avoiding villages, towns and cities. Not seeing anyone for days. Not speaking to anyone for weeks. Trusting no one. Endangering no one. Packs of wild dogs loose in the countryside. Deserted and derelict villages. The bombed and burnt out towns and cities. The English people defeated and depressed. The Germans victorious and triumphant.

  But he would not give up. He had walked steadily northwards up the length of England. He had swum across the River Tweed and had nearly drowned in the process. He had reached Berwick-Upon-Tweed, the city that had been built to guard the border. But now the border not only separated Scotland from England, it also separated the Free North from the Occupied South.

  Edinburgh was security conscious to the point of paranoia. Everyone who claimed to have ‘escaped’ from the Occupied South to the Free North was vetted and verified. If their identity could be proven then all was well and good and suitable employment would be found for them. However, the escapees were placed on probation. The Germans and their British puppets could still have a hold on them and they could be working under duress. For example, they could be holding their family as hostages. Edinburgh wanted to be sure that they were loyal and true. If they were not then it was a short hop, skip and jump to the gallows and the hangman’s noose, or, if they were lucky, internment in a Detention Camp in the Highlands for the duration.

  The man sat on a stiff backed chair drumming his fingers on the table in front of him. He was nervous and he was apprehensive. He had given the Debriefing Officer a list of names of people who could vouch for him and prove his identity. But what were the chances that any of them were in Scotland? He tensed in his chair as he heard the echo of two sets of footsteps marching down the long corridor. There was a knock at the door and an armed guard marched into the room, halted and saluted. “Identifying witness to see you, sir,” he said.

  The ‘identifying witness’ entered the room. His face broke out into a smile as he strode towards the escapee with an outstretched hand. “Dickey, old boy,” he said with concern, “you’re as thin as a rake. What on earth have they been feeding you?”

  “Sauerkraut and black bread,” the escapee replied. He grabbed the outstretched hand and gave the witness a giant bear hug. The gates opened and rivers of tears of relief ran down his cheeks. He shook as he cried his heart out. The tension and stress of the past year drained out of his body like water draining out of a bath. At last. After weeks on the run. After months of captivity. He was safe. Lieutenant-Colonel Richard Hook, Commanding Officer, Third Battalion, The Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers had arrived home.

  Ansett shook his head. “You should have checked the dead better…”

  “Oh no…” Sam’s hand covered his mouth.

  “Oh yes…two of the Germans survived.”

  The colour drained from Alan’s face. Sam turned as white as a sheet.

  “My God,” Sam croaked, “What are we going to do?”

  “Can the Jerries identify us?” Alan asked.

  “You signed your names on Jock’s report, didn’t you?” Ansett asked.

  “The Germans know who we are…” Sam groaned. “That’s it. We’re buggered. Game’s up. Show’s over. We might as well pack our bags right now. Put a bullet through our heads and save the Jerries the trouble.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ansett said. “Panic ye not.”

  Please, Mr. Ansett. Give us a glimmer of hope. Alan looked down in his hands. His fingers were interlaced in the position of prayer.

  “You told me that you found a massacre when you arrived. Correct?” Ansett asked.

  The boys nodded. “That’s right. The Jerries had already massacred the other mob. They were all lying together in a heap. That’s when we killed the Huns. The Police arrived soon after.” Sam stood up straighter. Maybe there was a chance of getting away with this.

  “But in your report you stated that there was full scale fight going on when you arrived?”

  Alan and Sam nodded.

  “If the Germans want to cover up the massacre of the prisoners then they might decide that it’s in their best interests not to dispute their story,” Ansett said.

  “Why would they do that?” Sam asked.

  “The Jerries have just set up the Specials. How would it sound if it came out that a joint Specials/ Police patrol wiped out an S.S. section? After all, they’re all supposed to be on the same side,” Ansett answered.

  “It would be a major embarrassment for Schuster,” Alan said. “He set it up.”

  “He would be forced to disband it and he would probably be demoted, if not sent back to Germany in disgrace,” Sam added.

  “My money is that Schuster will cover up this disaster,” Ansett said.

  “He might decide to support our statement rather than dispute it,” Alan said.

  “Exactly,” Ansett said. “After all, you and Jock are the only ‘reliable’ witnesses. The Jerry survivors are wounded. The Huns can’t afford another scandal like the slaughter in the Square yesterday.”

  “Any idea about casualties yet, sir?” Alan asked.

  “The Germans are saying that less than one hundred civilians were killed and wounded. But we reckon that it’s nearer to a thousand,” Ansett answered. “We were lucky to escape with our lives.”

  “My father’s alive,” Sam announced. “The S.S. dropped him off at our house this morning.”

  “Thank God.” Alan walked over and squeezed Sam’s shoulder.

  “The Nazis said that shots were fired from the crowd at the soldiers,” Ansett said.

  “What a crock of shit!” Sam exclaimed.

  “We know that and they know that, Sam,” Ansett said. “This is purely a face saving gesture. They’re playing the blame game.”

  “The cynical bastards.” Alan swore.

  “Talking of bastards,” Ansett said “Although the rational course of action for the S.S. who survived your private Guy Fawkes party would be to support your statement,” the boys chuckled, “I think that it would be wise for you two boys to be prepared to flee at a moment’s notice. Do you agree?”

  “Absolutely,” Alan answered for both of them.

  “Do you have a place where you can hide?” Ansett asked.

  “We have places to hide and places to go,” Sam answered.


  “What about Jock?” Alan asked.

  “You take care of yourselves. I’ll take care of Jock.” One way or another, Ansett said to himself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Colonel Hook spent the rest of the day catching up on news and gossip with his ‘identity witness,’ Brigadier John Daylesford. Before the invasion, Daylesford had been the Commanding Officer of the First Battalion The Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers. He had managed to escape from Dunkirk to Dover and he had been promoted from Lieutenant-Colonel to his present rank. Daylesford and Hook had served together in the First World War and had remained firm friends ever since.

  “I take it that you haven’t heard about what happened in Hereward yesterday?”

  “No. I’ve been stuck in here all day. What’s happened?” The hair on the back of Hook’s neck stood on end. “My wife is still in Hereward. I haven’t seen Jackie since I marched out on the day of the invasion.”

  “The Germans had threatened to execute twenty hostages unless certain ‘terrorists’ surrendered by one o’clock yesterday.” Daylesford paused. “A crowd gathered in the Town Square, the hostages were brought forward to be executed and then the Jerries opened fire on the crowd…”

  “My God!” Hook’s hand went to his mouth in horror.

  “We don’t know why the Huns opened fire yet,” Daylesford continued.

  “Casualties?”

  “We don’t know. Hundreds. Possibly thousands.”

  “Sweet Jesus…” What about Jackie? Was she safe?

  “We don’t have a list of casualties, Dickey.”

  Hook nodded slowly as if in a daze.

  “I’ll let you know when we do.” Daylesford squeezed Hook’s shoulder. “I’m sure that Jackie’s alright.”