Young Lions

by Andrew Mackay

  In response to the partisan attack on headquarters and to the previous attack on the Police station, Schuster asked Reichsstatthalter Scheimann for permission to equip the Police and Specials with Infantry weapons since it would be the Police and Specials who would largely be responsible for guarding Mosley and the Royals during their visit to Hereward. A few days after the event that became known, not very originally, as “Bloody Sunday” Sam and Alan reported for duty to be issued with Schmeisser machine guns. The boys could not stop smiling at the irony of the situation as they already had their own Schmeissers. In fact, they had several and an MG 42 as well. Schuster tried to convince himself that the tooling up of the Police and the Specials compensated for the fact that members of both Forces were resigning in droves. Some were not resigning, they were simply disappearing. Vanishing into the Fens countryside, complete with their weapons and uniforms, to join the swelling ranks of the Resistance. Schuster rationalized that he was better off without them, the fence sitters and the fair weather Fascists. What remained was a hard-core group of committed collaborators, traitors and pro-New Order British Nazis who knew which side their bread was buttered on. The Winning Side.

  Hauptsturmfuhrer Ulrich reported back for duty at the beginning of April. He had been in hospital for two weeks where he had received treatment for a punctured lung, broken ribs and severe lacerations to his legs, stomach, chest and face. The doctors told him that he was lucky not to have lost an eye. Or both eyes. He was lucky not to have lost his life. When Ulrich finally had the chance to look at himself in the mirror he gave himself a fright. He didn’t recognize himself. A stranger stared back at him. And an ugly stranger at that. His face was a mosaic of deep purple, dull yellow, bright red and pale white. Scars criss crossed his face like railway tracks on a map. When Schuster had seen him, he had laughed. He had assured Ulrich that he would be a hit with the girls. The ladies liked war wounds, he said. Schuster also told Ulrich that following the recent attack on headquarters and the Police station several vacancies had arisen for senior officers in the Triple S Brigade and it was his pleasure and privilege to promote Ulrich to sturmbannfuhrer. Not only was he officially the youngest sturmbannfuhrer in the S.S. but Reichsstatthalter Scheimann would also present sturmbannfuhrer Ulrich with an Iron Cross on St. George’s Day.

  “Will your men be ready?” Brigadier Daylesford sat on a rock at the water’s edge on the banks of Loch Torridon. The Alligin Hotel, temporary training centre for the Special Operations Executive, appeared in the background through a break in the fog.

  The captain sidestepped the question. “You haven’t given us much time,” he protested.

  “I know,” Daylesford admitted. “But unfortunately, it couldn’t be helped.”

  “How is the shopping going?”

  “They’re doing alright. They should have everything that you want by the time that you arrive.”

  “Bon,” the captain grunted. “Then my men will be ready.”

  “What’s this? Roadblock?” The driver of the lorry saw the soldier standing beside the motorcycle combination. He was waving for the lorry to pull over at the side of the road beside another lorry. “Bloody S.S.” The oberleutnant in the passenger seat swore. “I don’t need this. We’re late enough as it is.”

  The lorry slowed down and parked just beyond the other lorry. The driver could see that it was a Police lorry. Two policemen sat in the cab. It was obviously a joint S.S.-Police patrol.

  A hand slapped the side of the oberleutnant’s door. “Alright, Oberleutnant. Everybody out. Identification check,” the voice said. “Get your men out of the lorry at the double,” The S.S. sturmbannfuhrer ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” The oberleutnant saluted, opened the door and jumped down from the cab. He quick marched to the back of the lorry. “Alright, men. Everybody out!”

  There were muffled moans and groans of protest. Most of the men had been sleeping after wasting yet another unsuccessful day hunting partisans in the Cambridge shire countryside.

  “Line them up, side-by-side facing the road, Oberleutnant,” the sturmbannfuhrer ordered.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The tailgate banged open and the tired and hungry soldiers piled out of the lorry. The oberleutnant and the platoon scharfuhrer chivvied their charges like shepherds herding their flock. At last the physically and emotionally exhausted soldiers stood in an approximately straight line facing the sturmbannfuhrer.

  The oberleutnant snapped to attention. “All present and correct, sir.”

  “Take out your Pay Books ready for inspection,” the sturmbannfuhrer ordered.

  Several of the soldiers unslinged their weapons, took them off their shoulders and placed them on the ground beside their boots in order to allow them easier access to their Pay Books which were buried deep within their inside tunic pockets.

  The sturmbannfuhrer took off his hat and rubbed his itchy scalp.

  The machine guns tore into the Germans bowling them over like tenpins. MacDonald, Smith and Robinson appeared beside Rathdowne and also poured their Schmeisser rounds into the dead and dying soldiers.

  “Cease fire!” Rathdowne ordered.

  Sam and Alan appeared from further down the road and started walking towards them. Sam was holding the MG 42 that he had looted after the attack on headquarters. Alan followed carrying an ammunition box.

  Rathdowne turned to face the others. “Jock and Grant, finish off the wounded. Right lads,” he turned back to Alan and Sam. “Let’s strip the Jerries of any uniforms and weapons that we can use and pile them into the back of the Hun lorry.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I don’t like it, sir.” The S.S. scharfuhrer leaned down from the main compartment of the Sd Kfz 251 armoured personnel carrier and spoke to his platoon commander.

  “Why, Heinz?” The obersturmfuhrer asked.

  “Think about it, sir,” Scharfuhrer Heinz Hirschfeld replied. “We took two of their half tracks, now they want to take two of ours.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the second A.P.C. traveling in convoy behind them. “The Army thinks that it’s payback time.”

  “That’s if they are Army,” Obersturmfuhrer Kaltenbranner said.

  The Army oberleutnant lowered his binoculars to his chest. “Feldwebel Johst?” Oberleutnant Warlimont said over his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The A.P.C. s aren’t going to stop. They’re going to try and ram through the roadblock. Action stations. Get the boys ready. Tell them that we’re going to let these bastards now whose boss. We’re going to stop them.”

  “Here we go.” Kaltenbranner tightened his helmet chinstrap. “Gunner. Heinz, tell the men: open fire on my command.”

  “Now, Beck!” Warlimont ordered. A soldier quickly drove the platoon’s lorry onto the road and swung it around until it completely blocked the road through to Hereward.

  “Obersturmfuhrer?” The half-track driver said nervously.

  “Straight through, Schlageter! Straight through! Don’t stop!” Kaltenbranner ordered. “Heinz! Prepare to open fire!”

  “They’re not stopping, sir!” Johst said.

  “Open fire!” Warlimont ordered.

  Rounds raced from the weapons of the Army platoon hiding in concealed positions amongst the trees and bushes that ran along both sides of the road. Most of the bullets ricocheted off the A.P.C.’s armour plating and failed to find their targets. Many of the occupants of the half-tracks wisely kept their heads down and contrary to their platoon commander’s orders did not return fire, believing that discretion was the better part of valour. Kaltenbranner’s A.P.C. hit the rear left wheel or the lorry and battered it to the side. The half-track skidded across the road until Schlagater, the driver, regained control.

  “Keep going!” Kaltenbranner screamed in Schlagater’s ear as the A.P.C. screec
hed 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.