Young Lions Roar

by Andrew Mackay

  “Anyway, we can’t let this situation continue, Sergeant Major. This is Hereward, not Chicago, and I will not allow a pair of Spanish hit men to run around like they own the place. I want these two men found and brought back to me alive.”

  Bratge scratched his head. “That’s going to be difficult, sir. I’m undermanned as it is. Looking for these two will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I need more men, sir.”

  “Brigadeführer Herold has offered us the services of his SS military policemen,” von Schnakenberg said. “I haven’t accepted his offer yet and I would rather not, as I simply do not trust those Nazi bastards. However, needs must: do you need the men?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bratge replied. “I need all the help that I can get, sir. The more the merrier.”

  “All right then,” von Schnakenberg nodded. “I’ll contact Brigadeführer Herold and gratefully accept his kind offer. You’ll get your extra manpower.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Bratge bowed. “One more thing, sir.”

  “Yes, what is it, Sergeant Major?”

  “Are you sure that you want both hitmen taken alive, sir, or will one suffice?”

  Von Schnakenberg thought for a moment before replying. “On second thoughts, one will suffice, Sergeant Major,” von Schnakenberg replied. “You can feed the other one alive to the swans on the River Ouse for all I care.”

  “Very good, sir.” Bratge saluted.

  “Carry on, Sergeant Major. Dismissed!”

  “Sir, I have the service records of all of our men who were killed in the hotel bombing,” Sturmbannführer Ulrich announced.

  “Carry on, Sturmbannführer,” Brigadeführer Herold ordered.

  “Very good, sir.” Ulrich clicked his heels. “All of the officers and men fought during the invasion of Britain and also the invasion of France, sir. Hauptsturmführer Abetz and Scharführers Witzleben, Dollmann, Unger and Kophamel all served in Spain with the Condor Legión…”

  “What is the name of the Spanish Military Attaché?” Herold interrupted abruptly.

  Ulrich looked at his notes before he replied. “Major Mendoza, sir. Major Juan Mendoza of the XVIIth Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión, sir.” Ulrich continued to read his notes and blew a wolf whistle. “Franco’s poster boy, sir. He was awarded the Laureate Cross of Saint Ferdinand, Spain’s highest military medal for gallantry during the civil war, and he is a genuine war hero. He is married to the daughter of a very prominent Falange Government Minster and by all accounts he has a shining and glittering military, and probably political, career ahead of him, sir. Mendoza will probably end up as a general.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Herold hissed to himself under his breath.

  “Halt! Hande hoch!” The order echoed over the cobble stoned market square.

  The two men who were the object of the order looked at each other in confusion and slowly raised their hands above their heads.

  “Turn around with your hands above your heads!” the heavily German-accented voice ordered in English.

  The men did as they were told.

  “Good! Now, kneel...!”

  The double shot interrupted the German Military Police sergeant’s orders.

  “Berger! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The MP sergeant barked.

  “I thought... I thought he was going for his gun,” Berger replied.

  “Berger, you bloody idiot! Both of his hands were up! How the hell could he be going for his gun? Hauptwachtmeister Bratge gave express orders that the suspects were to be captured alive!” the sergeant shouted in anger.

  “Yes, Sergeant Schulenburg, I’m sorry, Sergeant Schulenburg...”

  Berger was still apologising when Schulenburg’s head disappeared in a spray of blood, bones and brains.

  Berger looked up as the surviving Spaniard fired another two shots. The German ducked as the rounds ricocheted off the stonework above his head. Berger snapped off two rounds to keep the Spaniard’s head down as he took cover. The German leaped behind a pillar and waited for the Spaniard to return fire. Nothing happened. Berger cautiously peered around the pillar, and saw the second Spaniard lying flat on his back. The German carefully approached the fallen man as he lay on his back in a pool of blood. There were two bloody holes in his stomach.

  “Mio Dio... mio Dio...” the Spaniard moaned between groans. His hands vainly tried to staunch the bleeding. “Bagnata... bagnata.” His hands looked as if they had been dipped in a bucket of blood.

  Berger’s eyes welled up with tears. He had recently been posted to England and he had never seen a dead body before, and he had certainly never shot and killed anyone before. The German whipped a field dressing out of his jacket and applied it to the Spaniard’s stomach wound. “Perdone, amigo...” Berger desperately tried to remember a few words of his schoolboy Spanish to comfort the dying man. “I didn’t mean to kill you.”

  The Spaniard’s eyes blinked in obvious confusion “No... no... no...”

  “It’s all right, amigo. Help will be here any minute.”

  “No soni di España... soni di Italia... soni di Italia... no soni di España...”

  Berger’s face drained of blood as he picked up the dying man’s dog tags.

  Gian Lorenzo Bruno. Sergeant. 24860143. 2nd Bersaglieri Regiment. Berger hurriedly ran over to the other dead man. Cesare Galilei. 2484104. Major. 2nd Bersaglieri Regiment.

  Berger stood up on unsteady legs and he staggered over in a daze to the decapitated corpse of Sergeant Schulenburg. He looked down at the body of his sergeant, the man who had welcomed him to the unit and who had looked after him and had treated him like a son. Sergeant Schulenburg was his friend. And now he was dead as a result of Berger’s stupidity and two innocent men also lay dead, killed by Berger’s own hand. Berger stood up as his mind raced into the future: court martial and inevitable punishment, disgrace both for him and his regiment, shame and humiliation for his family, never mind the diplomatic fallout between Germany and Italy. Berger experienced a Saint Paul on his road to Damascus-like epiphany, and suddenly realised what he had to do to right the wrongs that he was responsible for. He walked over to Bruno and knelt down. “I’m sorry, comrade.” Berger shook his head through tear-filled eyes as he gathered his strength to do what he had to do. He swiftly put one hand over the dying Italian’s mouth and pinched his nostrils closed with his other hand. He ignored the man’s feeble attempts to fight him off. When the Italian was dead Berger picked up the dead man’s pistol, put it back in the Italian’s hand, put the pistol to his own heart, and pulled the trigger.

  “What a bloody mess.” General-major von Schnakenberg threw the report across his desk in disgust.

  “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Major Bratge bent over to pick up the report which he had written and had landed at his feet. He understood von Schnakenberg’s frustration.

  Von Schnakenberg swivelled his chair and looked out of the window. “And of course the Italians are screaming blue murder and demanding their pound of flesh in compensation. God knows what we will have to give them to quieten them down. Tanks, aeroplanes, weapons which we can ill-afford to give them since we invaded Yugoslavia and Greece last month. We’re going to need all of the weapons and equipment that we can get hold of for when we invade Russia.”

  “Russia, sir?” Bratge asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Oh yes, Bratge. Russia. Come on, it was only a matter of time. Surely you saw it coming, Hauptwachtmeister? You didn’t really think that Hitler would honour the Non-Aggression Treaty which we signed with the Reds?”

  Bratge shook his head. “Of course I didn’t think that the Führer would honour the agreement which we signed with the Reds, sir; I just didn’t think that we would break it so soon. After all, we haven’t won the war in the West yet, sir. Churchill is still holding up north in Scotland. Is it wise to attack Russia whilst we are still fighting in the Balkans, North Africa and in Britain, sir?”

  Von Schnakenberg nodded. “I fully understood your c
oncerns, Bratge, and I have discussed this precise issue on many occasions with my colleagues. I also think that we may have bitten off more than we can chew but ‘ours not to reason why’, Sergeant Major.”

  “It’s the ‘ours but to do or die’ that I object to, sir. If I’m to do or die I at least like to know that there’s a reasonable chance of success before I put my neck on the line.”

  “You’re familiar with the works of Tennyson, Hauptwachtmeister? You’re a poetry fan?” Von Schnakenberg swivelled around to face his Sergeant Major.

  “I may only be a humble policeman, sir, but I am not a complete philistine.”

  Von Schnakenberg laughed. “Touché, my dear Bratge.”

  “It’s just that I was at Verdun in the last war, sir: I am painfully aware of what it is like to feel that the High Command are squandering our lives and throwing us away like so much confetti. I’m not prepared to go through that again and I’m not prepared for my men to go through that again either, sir. Once is quite enough for several lifetimes.”

  Von Schnakenberg nodded sombrely. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Hauptwachtmeister, and I salute the sacrifices that you and your comrades made on that bloody battlefield for the Fatherland.”

  Bratge bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, onto the matter in hand: we may not be able to influence what’s going on in headquarters in Berlin, but we can bloody well influence what goes on in Hereward.” The general pointed at Bratge. “I want the two Spaniards found and I want them found today. Not tomorrow, not next week. Today. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” Bratge came to a position of attention.

  “And Bratge?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve changed my mind: I want them dead or alive. I’m tired of pussyfooting around. Let’s show them that we mean business. Hereward is my town, not the SS’s, not the Resistance, and certainly not the Spaniard’s. Comprendes?”

  “Si, Jefe!”

  “Bueno. Dismissed!”

  “Repeat your orders, Sturmbannführer Ulrich,” Brigadeführer Herold ordered.

  “My mission is to capture the two Spaniards and if that is not possible then I am to kill them.” Ulrich stated. “On no account am I to allow the Army to capture the two Spaniards alive.”

  Herold stood directly in front of Ulrich, eyeball to eyeball. “Very good, Sturmbannführer.” Herold walked back to his desk.

  A moment’s hesitation. “Sir, may I ask…”

  “No you bloody well may not, Ulrich! This is not a bloody trade union meeting!” Herold slammed both of his hands on the tabletop.

  “Sir, it would just make it easier to…” Ulrich persisted.

  “Ulrich, on a need-to-know basis, you don’t need to know a God damned thing! You will carry out your orders, Sturmbannführer, or I will find someone who is capable of following my orders without questioning my authority!” Herold’s face was scarlet with barely-contained rage, and he looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel.

  “Yes, Brigadeführer.” Ulrich clicked his heels together and bowed in submission. “Of course I will carry out your orders, sir, without question. I was out of line, sir, and it won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right it was out of line, Ulrich and if it happens again I will have you shot,” Herold threatened. “I know that you’re known as ‘The Cat’ but I doubt that you’d be able to survive a firing squad at point-blank range.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ulrich bowed again.

  Herold swivelled his chair and looked out of the window.

  Ulrich coughed. “I have one more question, sir.”

  “It better be a good one, Ulrich, you’ve nearly used up all of your nine lives.”

  “What do I do if the Wehrmacht refuse to hand over their prisoners to me?”

  Silence.

  Herold swivelled his chair to look out of the window again. “Use your initiative, Ulrich,” Herold said over his shoulder. “After all, that’s what you’re paid for, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Eight

  “This is the Military Police! You are completely surrounded! Come out with your hands up!” Hauptwachtmeister Bratge ordered through his loud hailer.

  “Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph!” Corporal Miguel Pizarro exclaimed as he leapt out of bed. “It’s the pigs! How the hell did they sneak up on us like that? Didn’t you spot them, Alfonso?”

  Private Alfonso de Cervantes rubbed his eyes blearily and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jefe. I fell asleep,” he said, shamefaced.

  “You fell asleep?” Pizarro’s eyes blazed. “You stupid bastard, we may be soon be sleeping forever because of you!” The corporal grabbed his Schmessier submachine gun from his bedside table.

  “I’m sorry, Jefe: it won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t happen again, because soon we’ll be dead.” Pizarro slowly crawled on his hands and knees towards the window and carefully looked over the window ledge. He didn’t like what he saw. Two lorries were parked across the road immediately opposite the entrance to the Spaniard’s terraced apartment block, and they provided protection to the twenty or so MPs who sheltered behind them. Pizarro cautiously looked up and down the length and breadth of the street. A lorry with another squad of a dozen or so men blocked each end of the street.

  “How the hell did they find us, Jefe?” De Cervantes asked, as he stuffed extra magazines of ammunition and as many grenades as he could possibly carry into his trouser and jacket pockets.

  “How the hell should I know?” Pizarro replied angrily. “Wait a minute…” He slowly raised his head and looked down at their car that was parked just outside the entrance to the apartment block. The car which they had intended to use that very morning to drive back to London, “Christ… I don’t believe it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Diplomatic plates…” Pizarro replied in disgust. “Our Bolivian ID cards might have been perfect, but we forgot to replace our Spanish diplomatic number plates for Bolivian ones.”

  “Christ almighty…!”

  “The Germans must have driven around the town searching for us and spotted our Spanish number plates.”

  A pause to reflect. “What now, Jefe?”

  “What now, Alfonzo?” Pizarro smiled. “What else? We fight! To the death! Viva la Legión! Viva España!” The corporal smashed the window with the barrel of his Schmessier 9 millimetre submachine gun and fired a burst of bullets at the nearest bunch of MPs, whilst de Cervantes copied him.

  Bratge ducked as the bullets shattered the window of the lorry cab door, sending shards of sharp glass flying through the air in every direction. The man standing beside Bratge yelped as razor-sharp fragments impaled themselves in his body, and he frantically and futilely clawed at his face as he tried to find and remove the shards with his hook-like fingers. He was still trying to take out the pieces of broken glass when the next burst of machine gun fire cut him down.

  Bratge ducked again as two objects landed with an ominous thud in the open topped lorry. “Grenade!” he shouted. The force of the explosion killed and wounded the half a dozen or so MPs standing behind the lorry. Bratge looked down at the bloody and broken bodies of his men in horror, and knew that most of them would not get up again. Bratge looked at his surviving MPs who were cowering on the ground, taking shelter behind the other lorry. “Get up, you bastards! Start firing at the windows!” Bratge kicked the nearest soldier in the ass and physically pulled the others to their feet. “Open fire! Open fire!” he shouted frantically.

  “More of the same, I think, Alfonso.”

  “Very good, Jefe.”

  Another two grenades flew through the air and landed in the second open-topped lorry. The explosion knocked the surviving MPs down like skittles and they lay in an untidy heap on the pavement, twitching and moaning.

  “Christ!” Ulrich exclaimed in his disbelief as he lowered his binoculars. “They’ve wiped out the MPs…”

  “What are w
e going to do, sir?” the sergeant who was second in command of the squad asked.

  “We’re going to reinforce the MP’s position, Scharführer Gersdorff. The MPs are combat ineffective,” Ulrich answered as he looked at the shattered and torn bodies that were still smoking. “We can’t do anything here, Scharführer. The Spaniards are bound to make a break for it any second. That’s what I’d do if I was them.”

  “What about Obersturmführer Monat, sir?” Gersdorff pointed at the lorry that was blocking the opposite end of the street.

  “We’ll go first, and then we’ll cover Obersturmführer Monat when he moves,” Ulrich answered. “I’ll go first with half the squad and you cover me, Scharführer, and then you come to my position and I’ll cover you. Understood? “

  “Understood, Sturmbannführer.”

  “Very well.” Ulrich smiled and squeezed Gersdorff’s shoulder. “Pass the word, Scharführer. First five men, forward on my command.”

  “Alfonso, I think that we’ve wiped out the pigs!” Pizarro shouted.

  De Cervantes nodded. “What’s the plan, Jefe?”

  “We burst out of the front door all guns blazing, get in the car, and get the hell out of Hereward. How does that sound?”

  De Cervantes grinned. “Sounds good to me, Jefe.”

  Pizarro paused. “Alfonso, we can’t let them take us alive. The Gestapo…”

  “I understand, Jefe,” De Cervantes interrupted. “They would torture us and connect us to Major Mendoza.”

  Pizarro nodded. “Are you ready?”

  De Cervantes grinned. “I was born ready.”

  “Forward!” Ulrich ordered.

  Five stormtroopers followed hot on Ulrich’s heels as the Sturmbannführer sprinted the one hundred metres to the MP’s position. Gersdorff’s remaining five SS soldiers provided covering fire and shot at the apartment windows on the second floor where the Spaniards had been sheltering.

  At that precise moment the two Spaniards burst out of the front door of the apartment block and almost collided with the running stormtroopers. Pizarro and De Cervantes were the first to recover and opened fire at almost point-blank range with their Schmessiers, and cut down three of the surprised Germans before they had time to react. Ulrich opened fire with his machine gun and drilled a neat line of holes across Pizarro’s front. De Cervantes continued running to the car door, but when he realised that Pizarro had been shot he turned around and was shot in the stomach by one of the surviving stormtroopers.