Young Lions Roar

by Andrew Mackay

  Mendoza did not answer. There was no way that he could argue against his daughter’s logic.

  “But the Spanish people will suffer if I switch sides and fight against the Germans, Aurora. The Germans will think that we are filthy turncoats and traitors. At the very least they will cut off food supplies and at the very worst they may decide to invade us after they have finished off the British.” Mendoza bit his fist in horror as he contemplated the terrible consequences of any attempt to switch sides. He stared off into the distance as he imagined the sight of hundreds of thousands of German jackboots trampling over the sacred soil of his beloved Fatherland.

  “The trouble is that you think too much about the welfare of the Spanish people and not enough about the honour of Spain,” Aurora said wearily. “Honour demands that a son of Spain avenges the rape of a daughter of Spain at the hands of the Germans. The Spanish people are made of sterner stuff than you think, Papa: they will understand.”

  After a few seconds thought and reflection Mendoza gently placed his hand on top of his daughter’s hand. “I must… I must think about it, Aurora.” Mendoza smiled weakly.

  “Very well.” Aurora slid her hand out from underneath her father’s. “I will leave you to think about it, Papa.”

  Aurora stood up, straightened her skirt and bowed formally. Mendoza nodded. He was already deep in thought as he seriously considered his options. If Mendoza was not willing to take action to restore his daughter’s honour, the honour of the Mendoza family and the honour of Spain, then she would.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Nicholas Griffiths VC played with the wax-tipped ends of his bushy moustache as he listened to the briefing continue. He looked across the row of chairs and he was pleased to see that his officers were as rapt with excitement as he was. They were hanging on the Brigadier’s every word. Griffiths smiled at his men the way that a father would smile at his children. Yes, he considered the young officers to be his sons. Although they had only been together as a unit for a short time he thought of his men as being part of his family, and not just the officers - the rank and file as well. They were young and (for the most part) fit and healthy, they were as keen as mustard, and literally chafing at the bit to be let loose at the enemy. Yes, there was a definite buzz in the air. Griffiths gripped his swagger stick tighter. He could feel a tingling in his spine and the hair on the back of his neck was standing on edge. He tried to remember the last time that he had felt that way. Griffiths remembered that when he was a schoolboy at St John’s he used to feel the same excitement and sense of anticipation before a cross-country run, or before a swimming race, or before a rugby match. He remembered that he used to feel that way when he was a student at St Catherine’s College, Cambridge and he was about to take part in a rowing race against their arch-rivals, Oxford. He reminisced fondly as he remembered the day that he had been awarded a Blue in recognition of his achievements and prowess as a rower. Griffiths looked across at his officers again. Some of them were barely old enough to have graduated from varsity and he knew for a fact that some of them had only just done so when this unnecessary war had started. Griffiths shook his head sadly as he thought about how many of his fine young men would not live to see the end of the War. It was all such a damn shame and such a tragic waste of life.

  His mind drifted back to the last war where he had started as a young Second Lieutenant in the local regiment, The Royal Regiment of Fens Fusiliers, the RRiFFs. Griffiths had served throughout the war and had survived without a scratch. He puffed out his chest with pride as he looked down at the ribbon medals pinned to the chest of his black Battle Dress. He remembered the day when he had been awarded the Victoria Cross by the King himself when Griffiths was a captain serving on the Western Front. He had risked life and limb to rescue a dozen of his men who had been seriously wounded during the Battle of the Somme and who were lying in No Man’s Land bleeding to death. Griffiths could not abandon his men to their fate and had picked each of them up in a fireman’s lift, and had carried them back to an Emergency Aid Station one at a time.

  A file of faces seemed to cross before his eyes as he remembered his closest comrades in arms:- Mason, Hook, Witherspoon and Ansett. They had all been in the War right from the beginning and they had all survived more all less intact, physically if not emotionally. Griffiths checked himself. Apart from Mason. His good friend Ted Mason had been killed in a German artillery barrage as he tended the wounded in an Army Hospital behind the front lines. Yes, they had had their differences since the War, but they had been political differences of opinion, not personal differences. Their differences had not prevented them from remaining friends, even if relationships had at times become strained. Griffiths shook his head sadly. Yes, he would have liked to have seen more of his friends but had not been able to since the start of the new War and the recent unpleasantness. Now all of them were dead. They had all been killed since the Invasion. Griffiths shook his head bitterly.

  Griffiths remembered the private talk that he had had with the Prime Minister only a month or so before. He had known the PM for years and had previously been in command of his personal bodyguard. The PM had emphasised that it was absolutely essential that his unit put up a good show in the fighting which was to come. Griffiths’ unit was an experimental unit and had only been established and armed with great reluctance by the powers that be after relentless pressure from the PM It was vital that his unit gave a good account of itself and proved its worth. If Griffiths was successful, then those in power would agree to the raising of more and more similar units. The floodgates would be well and truly opened and Griffiths might well find himself in command of a brigade, or perhaps even a division. Griffith’s eyes clouded over as he daydreamed. Brigadier Griffiths… General Griffiths! Why not? Griffiths chuckled to himself. He had to admit, it did have a certain ring to it.

  Griffiths glanced over at his officers again. They were so focused on listening to the briefing that they had not noticed that their Colonel was looking at them. Captain, no sorry, Major Mason, had proven himself in the late unpleasantness in the fighting against the Germans. Griffiths smiled to himself. How ironic it was that he now found himself serving with another Mason, the son of his old friend, Ted Mason, whom he had served with more than twenty-five years ago. Griffiths was sure that his old friend was looking down on them both from heaven with a smile on his lips. As for the other officers, all of them apart from Captain John Baldwin were either ex-military and had served in either the last War or this one, or were veterans from the old Party street-fighting days. Griffiths looked at Baldwin again. He was an unknown commodity and his only ‘military experience’ had been service for three years in the Cambridge University Officer Training Corps. However, beggars couldn’t be choosers and Griffiths realised that in the present climate and under the current conditions he couldn’t afford to be too fussy. And anyway, Baldwin was a Cambridge graduate and although he was not a member of Cats and had been a member of an inferior college, Magdalene, Baldwin was still a varsity man.

  Griffiths turned his attention back to the briefing and the matter in hand. Operation Thor, the long-awaited-for invasion of Scotland. Griffiths glanced at his officers once more and nodded to himself. Yes, he was confident that the 1st Battalion of the British Union of Fascists Militia would deliver a bloody blow against Churchill and the rest of his Jew-loving Bolshevik war-mongering clique, and they would bring this unhappy and unnecessary civil war to an end once and for all.

  “Welcome home, sir,” Alan smiled. “ It’s good to have you back.”

  “Thank you, Alan,” Peter Mason replied. “It’s good to be back.”

  Sam and Alan had waited at the end of the German lesson to welcome their old teacher back to St John’s. The boys leaned against their school desks as they spoke to Mason.

  “How do you feel, sir?” Sam asked.

  “Rather delicate,” Mason replied as he tenderly rubbed his chest.

  So you bloody well should feel, Sam thought to himself
. I shot you twice in the chest at point blank range, you treacherous bastard. It’s a bloody miracle that you’re still alive.

  Mason had been busy rubbing the blackboard whilst the rest of the students had been filing out of the classroom. He had not noticed that Sam had quickly looked up and down the corridor before he had silently closed the classroom door.

  “What happened, sir?” Alan asked.

  “The doctors told me that I had been shot twice in the chest,” Mason replied.

  “Where, sir?” Alan asked.

  “Here and here.” Mason lowered his head and pointed at the two entry wounds with his index finger. As he displayed his war wounds, Alan sat down on a chair. Sam stood up and casually walked over to where Alan was sitting, and stood behind his seated friend. Sam put his right hand behind his back and silently extracted his Luger pistol from where it was concealed behind his trouser waistband. He held the weapon behind his back with his forefinger lying alongside the trigger guard. He reached into his left side blazer pocket with his left hand, and took out a silencer attachment. Sam put his left hand behind his back and expertly screwed the silencer onto the end of the Luger barrel. He coughed loudly as he cocked the weapon and flicked off the safety catch.

  “Excuse me, Al. Do you have a tissue?” Sam asked.

  “Sorry, Sam. I don’t,” Alan replied as he looked over his shoulder. Alan now knew that Sam was ready. Alan turned back to face Mason. “Sir, do you know who shot you?”

  Mason shook his head. “The last thing that I remember is the bomb going off in the Square,” Mason answered grimly. “The next thing I remember is regaining consciousness in Great Ormond Street Hospital in London.”

  “Great Ormond Street Hospital? I thought that Great Ormond Street was a children’s hospital, sir?” Alan asked with furrowed brows.

  “It was, Alan,” Mason confirmed. “It was a children’s hospital until the Germans commandeered it for the use of sick and wounded German soldiers.”

  “So where do sick and wounded British children go to now, sir?” Alan asked.

  Mason shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Alan.”

  “Bloody Huns,” Sam swore with venom in his voice. “Yet another reason to hate the bastards. Pardon my French, sir.”

  Mason shook his head. “There’s absolutely no need to apologise, Sam. I understand why you hate them. You have more reason to hate them then most, but German surgeons saved my life, Sam,” Mason said. “So I’m sure that you’ll understand if I don’t join you in your condemnation of them.”

  Sam bit his lip in order to stifle a reply that would be sure to give the game away.

  “So you have absolutely no idea who shot you, sir?” Alan asked again.

  “No, Alan.” Now it was time for Mason to furrow his brows. “Why are you so interested to know?”

  Alan shrugged his shoulders. “No particular reason, sir, I’m just interested. It’s not every day that you meet someone who has escaped certain death.”

  Mason smiled. Boys will be boys, he thought to himself with amusement. They would always be interested in death and destruction and blood and gore. “I don’t know who shot me, but the doctors did say an interesting thing.”

  “What’s that, sir?” Sam asked as a bead of sweat ran down his temple.

  “I was shot at point blank range, which means that the shooters were within a few yards from me and yet I made no attempt to draw my revolver. The doctors think that I must have known the attackers and, more than that, I must have trusted the attackers.”

  “And yet you have no idea who these attackers might have been?” Alan asked.

  Mason smiled. “Alan, I have been a teacher at St John’s for ten years and I live in the town. Hereward is my home. I know a lot of people in Hereward and I have a lot of friends here. The shooters might have been regulars in my local pub; they could be present or ex-pupils; they could even have been Specials. Who knows? You boys could have shot me for all I know. God knows, I’ve given you just cause to do so after all of these years of teaching you French and German.”

  The colour drained from Sam’s face, and he started to raise his pistol.

  Mason suddenly burst out laughing.

  “What… what is it, sir?” Alan asked with a nervous smile on his face.

  “I’m only joking, boys!” Mason was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face. “Of course I don’t think that you boys shot me! But the look on your faces! Sam, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost!”

  Sam laughed weakly. “When… when I saw you here today, sir, for a moment I did think that I’d seen a ghost. The last time that I heard anything about you was that you were in intensive care with a serious chest wound.”

  “Yet here I am.” Mason stretched out his arms with a smile.

  “Yet here you are, sir,” Alan said.

  “Like Lazarus back from the dead.”

  The boys did not reply. Sam silently flicked on the safety catch. He coughed loudly as he uncocked his pistol. Sam swore under his breath.

  “Are you all right, Sam?” Mason asked with concern.

  “Sudden twinge in my back, sir,” Sam explained as he rubbed it. “Old war wound. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “No, of course not, Sam. Please do.”

  As Sam sat down he quickly placed the Luger behind his back beneath his trouser waistband.

  “Talking of war wounds,” Mason started, “what happened to you two on the day of the St George’s Day Massacre?”

  “We had to shoot our way out, sir.” Alan replied matter of factly. “After the bomb explosion and the assassination of the King and Queen everyone went crazy, sir. The SS started shooting at us, and we and the Police returned fire.”

  “So the SS started it?” Mason asked.

  “Of course, sir!” Alan replied, “You’re not suggesting that we started the shoot out? That would be like signing our own death warrant! As it was, the Army turned up and prevented us from wiping out the SS. The Army gave us no quarter and killed all of the Police and the Specials.”

  “So how did you boys escape?”

  Alan shrugged his shoulders. “We had to fight our way out, sir.” Alan shook his head as he remembered the horrific scenes of chaos and carnage. “It was absolutely terrible, sir. There were men and women and children screaming and running all over the place trying to escape, and we were shooting at the Huns and they were shooting at us. There was blood and bodies everywhere, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, sir. We didn’t kill any people; only Germans,” Sam explained matter of factly.

  “I see,” Mason nodded his head grimly. “You boys seem to have a knack of getting into and getting out of trouble.”

  “As do you, sir.” Alan smiled.

  “You know what they say, boys…”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “The devil looks after his own.”

  Alan stood up. “Thank you for your time, sir. It was good to talk to you and it’s good to have you back, sir.”

  Sam repeated his friend’s sentiments and the boys started walking towards the door.

  “And boys?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If I do suddenly remember who shot me, you can rest assured that you two will be the first to know.”

  “What happened in there, Sam?” Alan asked as they walked down the street. “You looked flustered.”

  “That’s because I was flustered.” Sam stopped walking and grabbed his friend’s forearm. “Listen, Al: I dropped a bullet on the floor of Mason’s classroom.”

  “You did what?” Alan’s eyes bulged wide open with horror.

  “It happened when I was uncocking my Luger. I had my hands behind my back, and I couldn’t see what I was doing. I tried to catch the round as it ejected but my hands were slippery, and I couldn’t hold the bullet and I dropped it on the floor,” Sam explained with a staccato-style delivery.

  “Bloody hell!” Alan said. He looked up and down the street to check if
anyone was close enough to listen to their conversation. “Did you try and look for it?”

  “Of course I did! I’m not a complete idiot!” Sam was exasperated. “That’s why I sat down, but I couldn’t see it. The round must’ve rolled under a cupboard or something. I couldn’t see it anywhere.”

  “Then I hope to God Mason hasn’t seen it yet, because if he’s found it we will soon be in a world of hurt,” Alan was thinking aloud.

  “All the more reason to kill the treacherous bastard now,” Sam said grimly.

  “Not yet, Sam.” Alan put his hand on his friend’s forearm. “Mason might be useful.”

  “Useful? Useful for what? ” Sam guffawed. “Useful to whom?” Sam continued angrily “The only people who that dirty traitor has been useful to are the Germans. I say that we go back to his classroom now, kill him, and get the whole thing over and done with. We can’t afford to run the risk of him remembering that it was me that shot him one month ago.”

  “I think that we should ask Edinburgh what they want us to do. If they order us to kill him then we’ll do what they say without any delay, but if they order us to leave him alone for the time being as a possible source of information then we follow our orders. Agreed?”

  Sam nodded his head reluctantly. “Agreed. But as soon as we get even the slightest hint or the merest suspicion that he has recovered his memory, we kill him immediately. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Alan replied. “But first things first: we need to find the lost bullet.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Bloody hell, Al!” Sam swore angrily. “This is a complete waste of time. I can’t see a bloody thing.”

  “Keep searching, Sam. It’s bound to be here somewhere,” Alan urged.

  The two boys continued searching on their hands and knees for the missing bullet. They each gripped a small torch in their teeth as they looked for the lost round in the pitch black classroom.