Young Lions Roar

by Andrew Mackay

  “Of course, Aurora.” Sam’s eyes lit up with excitement. “What do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Aurora replied as she patted Sam’s hand. “But I’ll think of something. Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

  Brigadeführer Herold stood at the front of the stage, gripping a captured British Army officer’s swagger stick in both of his hands. “Gentlemen, I invited you all here today because I have a very important announcement to make.” The assembled officers of the Triple S brigade were sitting on the edges of their seats with excitement. “Der Tag has finally arrived. Operation Thor - the invasion of Scotland - will take place on June 22nd in exactly one month’s time.” An electric current of excitement surged through the officers as they heard the news and made them sit ramrod straight in their chairs as if they had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Herold waited patiently for his officers to calm down and settle themselves before he continued. “As you know, gentlemen, our mission was to carry out a river crossing and capture the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. That mission has now changed and will no longer be carried out by our Brigade. That mission has been re-tasked to our brothers in arms in Hereward, General-Major von Schnakenberg’s Brigade.” There was a murmur of discontent from the assembled officers. The Triple S thought that an evil stepsister was a more accurate description of their Wehrmacht fellow occupiers than brothers in arms. “Our new mission is to capture and hold until relieved two bridges over the Beattie Canal and the Auchterlonie River, and also the village of Robinson.” Herold walked over to the rear of the stage and pulled a large piece of black material that concealed the back wall. The black sheet floated to the floor of the stage, revealing a massive five metre by five metre map of the Scottish-English border from the west to the east coast. There was a sharp intake of breath from the officers as they marvelled at the impressive detail of the map, which had been painstakingly and patiently copied and enlarged by the Brigade’s own cartographers from the Engineering unit.

  “As you can see, there are only two roads which are capable of carrying our panzers - the Carlisle to Gretna road on the west coast which leads onto Glasgow, and the Newcastle to Berwick-upon-Tweed road on the east coast which leads on to Edinburgh. Both of these roads are double carriageway. There are another half a dozen or so roads that also cross over the border, but they are all single track and are completely unsuitable for our panzers. So it is of absolutely vital importance that we capture these roads. If we do not capture and hold onto these roads then the entire invasion will fail. However, we are not concerned with the ways and means that our comrades on the west coast will utilise to capture their targets. Nor are we concerned with the methods that General-Major von Schnakenberg will use to capture Berwick-upon-Tweed. Any questions so far, gentlemen?”

  Sturmbannführer Ulrich raised his right hand.

  “Yes, Sturmbannführer Ulrich?”

  “Forgive me if I have misunderstood, sir, but does this mean that we have to wait for General-Major von Schnakenberg’s Brigade to capture Berwick-upon-Tweed before we can carry out our mission?”

  There was muffled grumbling from the assembled officers.

  “No, Sturmbannführer,” Herold replied with a smile.

  “No, sir? Then I fail to see how we can capture our targets, sir.” Ulrich sat back in his chair with his arms folded in frustration.

  “It’s simple, Sturmbannführer: we fly in,” Herold replied with a smile.

  A ripple of excitement ran through the officers like a Mexican wave.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, if I can have your attention please…” Herold waited until the talking had ceased. “As you already know, the 7th Fliegerdivision were redeployed from England to Greece at the end of April and have since spearheaded the airborne assault on Crete. The battle is carrying on as we speak and the fate of the struggle very much hangs in the balance, although I am sure that German arms will eventually prevail…” There were shouts of “Hear, hear!” from the assembled officers. “The original plan had been to redeploy the paratroopers back to England to take part in the invasion of Scotland but it has now been decided that there simply isn’t enough time. As a result, there is not a single paratrooper in the whole of England or Wales.”

  Herold enjoyed looking out over the furrowed faces in the crowd. He knew that his officers were all thinking the same thing: That’s all very interesting, but what’s that got to do with us?

  “However, carrying out an airborne assault behind enemy lines in order to capture vital strategic targets is an absolutely essential component of the plan. The simple problem is that we do not have any airborne forces in England, but the solution is equally simple: we will create them. I am proud to announce that the Triple S brigade is going to become an airborne brigade - henceforth we will be known as the 1st SS Airborne Brigade of the 1st SS Airborne Division. We will capture our targets by glider and by parachutes!”

  For a moment there was a delayed reaction from the officers before the news properly sunk in; then to a man they all leapt to their feet and started whooping and hollering, shaking each other’s hands, slapping each other on the back, giving each other bear hugs and throwing their hats in the air. The officers knew what the new title would mean: the very word “Airborne” would raise them to another level and would separate them from the run-of-the-mill SS units. The 1st SS Airborne Brigade would from now on be recognised as an elite unit, handpicked and chosen by Reich Marshall Himmler and the Führer themselves to spearhead the invasion of Scotland in a do-or-die mission. None of the officers could envisage anything other than a future full of honour, glory and prestige.

  When the excitement had finally died down, another officer raised his hand.

  “Yes, Hauptsturmführer von Stein?” Herold said.

  “There is one thing that I am unclear about, sir…” von Stein began.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “A brigade usually consists of three battalions, sir, but since the 6th SS redeployed to Poland the Brigade only consists of two battalions, the 4th and the 5th SS. We are seriously under strength, sir.”

  Herold looked at von Stein for a second before he replied. “That is why I have invited their replacements to join us at this briefing. Gentlemen, I have the pleasure and the privilege to present to you the senior officers of the 1st Spanish Volunteer Legión!”

  Von Stein’s face suddenly drained of all colour. If he had been standing up his legs would have given way, and he would have collapsed to the ground.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Mendoza dramatically pushed open the theatre’s double doors and walked down the aisles to the front by the stage. He was followed by his second-in-command, Major Primo Astray, and the four captains commanding Mendoza’s four companies. The Spaniards sat in the front row of seats to the left of the aisle.

  “Let us welcome our new comrades with our traditional Triple S Brigade hospitality,” Herold announced.

  Herold’s words were met with a stony silence. The stormtrooper officers had all lost comrades as a result of the King Alfred Hotel and Queen Alexandra Road bombings, and although the deaths had been officially blamed on diehard Spanish Republicans and not on Spanish Foreign Legiónaries the thought of working with - never mind fighting alongside - any Spaniards of whatever political creed or colour left a sour taste in the SS officers’ mouths. The Germans looked as if they had just discovered a piece of dog shit smeared onto the bottom of their jackboots.

  For their part, if looks could kill, all of the Germans would have instantly dropped dead as if they had been cut down with one fell sweep of the Grim Reaper’s scythe. The Spaniards all knew about the rape and attempted murder of their commanding officers’ daughter, Aurora, and looked forward to exacting divine retribution and holy vengeance on the SS for their despicable and dastardly assault on a their CO’s defenceless young daughter. Major Astray had personally written the letter to Herold asking him to pass on the warning to von Stein that he would be held personally responsible if Mendoz
a so much as cut his chin whilst shaving, and would suffer swift and ruthless punishment as a direct consequence. Astray smiled to himself as he thought how ironic it was that the same Brigadeführer Herold was now welcoming the 1st LVE as fraternal Fascist comrades.

  Herold chose to ignore his officer’s somewhat less than cordial welcome to the new arrivals. “Now, gentlemen, I am sure that there will be sufficient time and opportunity in the future for us to get to know each other a little better. After all, we are comrades-in-arms now. Let’s continue with the briefing…”

  “Gentlemen, that concludes the briefing. Thank you for your patience. Colonel Mendoza, if you would be so kind as to leave first…”

  “Thank you, Brigadeführer Herold.” Mendoza stood up and gave an impeccable parade ground salute.

  Herold responded with an outstretched “Heil Hitler!”

  As Mendoza and his men stood up to leave, Herold turned around to give instructions to the stage crew to tidy up.

  “These stupid Spanish bastards have come here to learn how to fight. I swear that these dirty dagoes wouldn’t know how to wipe their own arses if we didn’t teach them how to do it first,” an SS Hauptsturmführer sitting on the third row said in a stage whisper, loud enough for his comrades sitting on the same row and the Spaniards walking by to hear it. His fellow officers sniggered like naughty schoolboys in agreement.

  Mendoza winced as he heard the words, but chose to ignore it and continued walking.

  However, one of his men chose not to. Quick as a flash, Captain Enrique Mazzoli grabbed the stormtrooper by his lapels and hauled him to his feet. Mazzoli drew his bayonet and held it against the German’s throat.

  “Choose your next words wisely, German. They could well be your last.”

  Another Spanish officer put his hand on his comrade’s shoulder and said matter-of-factly, “I would advise you to do as he says, Adolf. My friend here has killed more Germans then you have had hot dinners…”

  “Except they were all Communists. I’ve never killed a Nazi before, although there’s always a first time for everything,” Mazzoli said menacingly.

  “What the bloody hell is going on here?” Herold roared as he leaped off the stage and rushed to separate Mazzoli and the SS officer.

  “The Hauptsturmführer expressed the opinion that us ‘stupid Spanish bastards’ had come to England to learn how to fight, Brigadeführer Herold.” Mendoza explained in fluent German. “My Captain here was merely demonstrating that the Hauptsturmführer was gravely mistaken in his appreciation of our fighting abilities: we ‘dirty dagoes,’ as your officer so eloquently called us, do not need to be taught how to ‘wipe our own arses’, nor do we need to be taught how to fight,” Mendoza explained drolly.

  Herold looked at the hapless and helpless SS officer with such intense fury and anger that the unfortunate stormtrooper visibly shrunk before his eyes.

  “I apologise for this insult, Colonel. It won’t happen again.” Herold bowed and clicked his jack-booted heels.

  “Your apology is not necessary, Brigadeführer. However, it is unfortunate that our relations have got off to such an inauspicious start on our first day together,” Mendoza replied. “Captain?”

  “Yes, sir?” Mazzoli replied.

  “Release Big Mouth here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mazzoli let go off the German, who promptly collapsed to the ground.

  “Brigadeführer.” Mendoza saluted again.

  “Colonel.” Herold returned the salute.

  Mendoza led his men out of the theatre.

  Herold looked with contempt at the heap of humanity lying on the ground.

  “Get up, Hauptsturmführer!” Herold hissed. “On your feet! You’re an officer in the SS! Act like one!”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t.” Herold took out his Luger pistol, cocked it, flicked off the safety catch, and shot the startled officer right between the eyes. The Hauptsturmführer died with a look of complete and utter bewilderment and incomprehension on his face.

  The SS officers remained rooted to the spot like statues, their mouths hanging open in shock and surprise as they watched a rapidly-spreading pool of blood seep out from underneath the dead man’s body.

  “Nothing and no one is going to be allowed to jeopardise the success of this mission! No-one!” Herold bellowed at the top of his voice as he waved his weapon around.

  The stormtroopers were too dazed to reply.

  “No one!” Herold repeated. “Do I make myself clear?” Herold haphazardly pointed his pistol at the nearest officer.

  “Yes, Brigadeführer,” his men answered lamely.

  “I can’t hear you! Do I make myself clear?” Herold shouted.

  “Yes, Brigadeführer!” His officers shouted in unison.

  “Good.” Herold nodded his head as he flicked on the safety catch, made safe his Luger and holstered the weapon. “I sincerely hope so, gentlemen, because if I hear of anyone else being a big mouth, if I hear of anyone else speaking before they stop to think, I will find you and shoot you myself. Sturmbannführer Ulrich?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ulrich saluted.

  Herold casually returned the salute. “Is this worthless piece of shit one of yours?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ulrich nodded. “Hauptsturmführer Krauss commanded - sorry, Brigadeführer, used to command - Bravo Company, sir.”

  “Well, you need a new Company Commander. See that Krauss is sent home with the next shipment of bodies to Germany.”

  “Cause of death, sir?”

  Herold thought for a moment before replying. “The usual reason will suffice, Sturmbannführer: partisan attack.”

  “Very good, sir.” Ulrich saluted and clicked his heels together like a Prussian Drill Sergeant.

  “And Sturmbannführer Ulrich?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Arrange for a crate of Whyte and Mackay whiskey to be sent to Colonel Mendoza by way of an apology.”

  “Very good, sir.” Ulrich saluted again.

  “Dismissed.” As his officers filed out of the theatre, Herold walked over to Krauss’s body. He looked at the corpse for a second before he spat on Krauss’s face.

  “That’s the last time that you screw up one of my morning briefings, you stupid loud mouthed bastard.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “But, Papa, I don’t understand. How can you fight for the Nazis after all that they have done to us?” Aurora asked her father with tears in her eyes.

  “Aurora, I am not fighting for the Germans, I am fighting with them. The Caudillo has ordered me to take part in the invasion of Scotland. I am a professional soldier, Aurora. I have no choice, I have to obey my orders,” Mendoza explained gently.

  “Why can’t you refuse?”

  “Because I would be shot, Aurora!” Mendoza reacted with wide eyed horror as if his daughter had asked him to commit suicide.

  “Then why can’t you resign?” Aurora persisted.

  “Resign? Resign, Aurora? What would I do? Work as a baker? Work as a butcher? I am a professional soldier, Aurora. I joined the Army when I was eighteen, I have been fighting my whole life, and I don’t know how to do anything else except fight.”

  “And kill,” Aurora accused bluntly.

  “Yes, and kill,” Mendoza admitted.

  “The problem is that you’ve been fighting and killing the wrong enemy, Papa.”

  Mendoza bristled and sat up straighter in his chair. “I fight and I kill who ever I’ve been ordered to, Aurora, whether it’s rebellious Moroccans or Spanish Reds, who also are the enemies of Spain…”

  “Whoever you have been ordered to kill as the enemies of Spain? The British are not the enemies of Spain, Papa. You are not a robot and you are not a slave. You have a conscience, Papa. You are made of flesh and blood, you have free will, and you are not obliged to follow an illegal and immoral order,” Aurora insisted.

  “My conscience is clear,”
Mendoza said stiffly. “I am a professional soldier and I do not have the freedom of will to pick and choose which orders I decide to follow. I am obliged to follow the legal orders of my superior officer, whether I personally consider those orders to be morally justifiable or not.”

  “Except this time you have been ordered to fight and kill the British, Papa,” Aurora interrupted. “The British are our friends. Two British boys saved my life and they saved your life.”

  “I know that, Aurora!” Mendoza snapped as he slapped the top of the table in frustration. “Do you think that I don’t know that? Every second of every day I think about what happened. The memory of that day is seared onto the surface of my eyeballs. I even see the images when my eyes are shut. Every night I have nightmares and I wake up in a cold sweat with horror at the injuries that those Nazi animals inflicted on you. Every day I light a candle and thank the Blessed Virgin that you ignored my orders not to start going out with Alan!” Mendoza continued angrily.

  “Alan and Sam saved our lives, Aurora; they saved the life of my only child. The debt of gratitude which I owe the boys is so massive that it would take me several lifetimes to repay it.” Mendoza suddenly stopped talking as if he had run out of energy. He was physically as well as emotionally drained and exhausted and he was breathing heavily. After several seconds Mendoza gathered his thoughts, and sighed wearily before he answered, “Believe me, my sweet, it gives me no pleasure that I have been ordered to fight against the British…”

  “Then why are you going to do it, Papa?” Aurora persisted. “I thought that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Those Nazi animals raped me, Papa, and they were going to kill me, but Alan and Sam stopped them. The Nazis are the boys’ enemies; does that not make them our enemies as well? The Nazis murdered Sam’s parents, one of his brothers is missing and has probably been killed, and his other two brothers are still fighting the Nazis. Surely, the most effective way for us to start repaying our debt to the two boys is to join them in the fight against the Nazis instead of joining the Nazis in their fight against the boys?”