Young Lions Roar

by Andrew Mackay

  Von Schnakenberg nodded his head. “I would be if I was the British. Imagine if we discovered that we had a realistic chance to bump off Churchill? I did try to warn the powers that be that the British would send a hit squad to assassinate the Führer but they ignored my advice.” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “As far as I’m concerned, I did my duty and honour has been served. From now on I will follow the example of Pontius Pilate and wash my hands off the whole sorry situation.”

  Brigadier Daylesford smiled in triumph like a man who had just won the lottery. “We have the complete Order of Battle of both Herold’s Triple S Brigade and von Schnakenberg’s Brigade. Dates, times, targets, everything.”

  “Are we sure that the information is reliable, sir?” Peter Ansett asked with raised eyebrows.

  “As sure as we can be, Major.” Ansett had been promoted to Major to give him a position of power and influence within the Special Operations Executive. “The information has been verified by three separate independent sources.”

  “Excellent, sir. The question is whether or not this information will give us enough time to devise a defensive strategy to disrupt and destroy the German Invasion Plan.”

  Daylesford nodded. “Of course, that’s the six million pound question. However, I’m certain that General Montgomery will be up to the job. After all, the Prime Minister has every confidence in his abilities.”

  “I wish that I shared your confidence, sir,” Ansett said grimly. “It’s just that all of our generals who have come up against the ‘German Fox’ have come a cropper.”

  Daylesford nodded his head. “I agree that Erwin Rommel is a formidable adversary, Major; but remember that Monty was the only one of our generals who was able to give the Jerries a bloody nose when they thrust through France, and it was that bloody nose which made the Jerries hesitate and their temporary loss of confidence allowed us to get most of our boys out at Dunkirk. If anyone can stop the Jerries, Monty can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Daylesford bared his teeth like a wolf. “And Pete, not only do we know the entire German plan for the invasion of Scotland on the east coast, we also know that Hitler will be paying a visit to Hereward and he will be travelling around England and Wales for a whole week before the invasion begins.”

  Ansett’s eyes bulged wide with shock and surprise at the news. “Hitler’s coming to Britain? When does he arrive?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Jesus Christ! That doesn’t give us much time,” Ansett exclaimed.

  “I know.” Daylesford nodded his head. “The question is: can we get a team together in time to mount an operation?”

  “We can’t rely on Percy’s unit?”

  Daylesford shook his head. “No. They’ve taken heavy casualties recently and Percy has assured me that they are in no fit state to pull off a job of this size and significance by themselves. They need help. Can we give it to them?”

  Ansett thought for a moment before he answered. “I’ve got two people in mind that would be perfect for the job.”

  Daylesford smiled, and put his hand on Ansett’s shoulder. “Excellent, Pete. I knew that you wouldn’t let me down. I want to brief them today; they leave tomorrow.”

  The three parachutes floated gently through the sky and came to rest within sight of the Drop Zone.

  “Alice and Bob, put out the fires,” Leon ordered. “Sam, you greet the nearest parachutist. Alan, you greet the furthest away parachutist. I’ll collect the canister. Let’s go!”

  Alice and Bob doused the flames that the Reception Committee had set to signal the SOE plane carrying the parachutists. Sam and Alan hurried away with mounting excitement to meet the new arrivals.

  Sam thought about the last time that they had met visitors from the Free North. They had welcomed Napoleon and his commandos to England less than two months ago, and every single one of them had been killed during their abortive attack on the convoy carrying Kaiser Eddie and the Wicked Witch to Hereward. Sam shook his head with sorrow as he thought of the tragic waste of life. He tried in vain to remember Napoleon’s face, but he failed dismally. Sam shrugged his shoulders as he physically shook those feelings free. The important thing was that they had got the job done and the Resistance had accomplished the mission. Sam smiled as he remembered the look on the Puppet King’s face as he had executed him. He wouldn’t have traded that for all the tea in China. Napoleon and his commandos had not died in vain.

  “Welcome to England, comrade.” Sam shook the visitor’s hand.

  “Comrade?” The visitor’s voice was raised in surprise. “Are you a Communist Resistance Group?”

  Sam bristled at the tone of the question. “Does it matter?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good.” Sam nodded his head in the darkness. “Let’s meet the others.”

  Every one quickly gathered around the dying embers of the bonfire.

  “Welcome to England, gentlemen,” Leon said warmly. “Follow me to the farm.”

  Leon led the way back to the farm in the pitch darkness. After a half an hour walk, they finally arrived at the farmhouse. “Bob, take first sentry duty,” Leon ordered.

  “Yes, Dad,” Bob answered. He tucked his rifle into his shoulder, opened the door and walked outside, where he took up his sentry position facing up the road.

  “You are not Communists?” Sam’s visitor asked.

  Leon looked at the visitor as if he had asked Leon if he wore ladies’ underwear. “Does this look like a Collective Farm to you?” Leon chuckled “No, we’re not Communists. But we’re not Tories either. We’re simple British patriots.”

  “Bloody Tories,” Alan sneered. “If that spineless bunch of lily-livered custard-coloured cads had stood up to Hitler back in ’33, as Churchill had warned, we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

  “Damn straight,” Sam agreed. He looked at the new arrival with a quizzical raised eyebrow. “But you’re not British? You speak English with an accent.”

  The visitor nodded. “Correct. I’m from Gibraltar. Call me Greg. And this is Zed.” Greg introduced his companion, who responded with a friendly smile.

  “Zed?” Sam said with raised eyebrows. “What sort of a weird name is Zed? No offence.”

  Zed laughed. “None taken. My parents were missionaries and christened me Zachariah. Coincidentally, there was another Zachariah in my class at school. He was Zach and I was Zed.”

  Sam laughed “Zed it is. Call me Sam.” Sam turned to face Zed’s companion.

  “Do you speak Spanish, Greg?”

  Greg nodded. “Si, hablo Español. My mother is Spanish, my father is Gibraltarian.”

  “That’s interesting,” Alan interjected. “The Deputy House Master of Cromwell Boarding House speaks Spanish like a native as well. When I asked him about it he also said that he had been raised in Gibraltar before the War. Perhaps you know him?”

  “What’s his name?” Greg asked.

  “John Baldwin.”

  “Short, fat, dark and rather ugly?”

  Alan shook his head. “No, quite the opposite: tall, slim, fair and rather good-looking. All the girls fancy him.”

  “I’ll vouch for that!” Alice answered. “Mr Baldwin looks like a Hollywood movie star.”

  Greg laughed and shook his head. “No, sorry. I don’t know him. It must be another John Baldwin that I know.”

  “Pretty Boy is also a dirty fascist traitor, Al,” Sam said vehemently.

  “Now, Sam. We don’t know that.” Alan defended his Deputy House Master.

  “Al, he’s a member of the Fascist Militia,” Sam persisted.

  “As am I, Sam,” Alan replied.

  “You’re a member of the Fascist Militia?” Greg asked with wide eyes as his hand automatically grabbed the pistol grip of his revolver.

  Alan laughed. “Only under orders. I’m in disguise.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Alan. Or else I would be forced to shoot you,” Greg s
aid.

  Alan laughed again. “Mr Baldwin doesn’t get the chance to practise speaking Spanish very often. I think that it would be a good idea for you to meet him.”

  “I would like that a lot,” Greg replied.

  Alan yawned dramatically. “I don’t know about you folks, but I’m completely knackered. I’m going to hit the sack. I’m next on sentry duty. I’m going to get some shut-eye before it’s my shift.”

  “Good idea, Al,” Leon said with an approving nod.

  “I’m going to hit the sack as well,” Sam said.

  “And me,” Alice echoed. “Good night, everyone.” Alice walked over and gave Leon a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  The youngsters disappeared upstairs, leaving the three men seated around the kitchen table and Bob outside on sentry duty.

  Greg waited until the three teenagers had gone upstairs before he spoke. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Mr Leon…”

  “Please. Call me Archie,” Leon interrupted.

  Greg nodded his head. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Archie, but I didn’t expect your unit to include children.”

  “Include children?” Leon said with raised eyebrows. “This unit is comprised entirely of children! I’m the only adult in it.”

  “You’ve got to be joking!” Zed exclaimed in disbelief.

  Leon shook his head. “I wish that I was, but I’m not.”

  Greg shook his head in horror. “How are we supposed to accomplish this mission with a bunch of kids? We’ll be like lambs to the slaughter!”

  “Now, Greg, before you continue, let’s just get one thing straight: those three kids alone have killed at least a hundred Jerries between them, and that’s before I joined them.”

  “Before… before you joined them?” Zed asked in confusion. “I thought that you asked the kids to join you.”

  “Most adults think the very same thing,” Leon answered. “Those three asked me to join them after they’d just wiped out a squad of SS stormtroopers and they needed some help to dispose of the bodies. Those three have killed more Germans than German measles!”

  “Madre Dios!” Greg exclaimed.

  “And you joined?” Zed asked.

  “Of course!” Leon nodded his head. “I’d been scratching my head thinking about how I could start striking back at the Huns. Those Valkyries came up with the answer. My sons and I joined up with them and we’ve been fighting the Huns together ever since.”

  “Your sons?” Greg asked in confusion. “But I only saw Bob, where is your other…?”

  Zed put his hand on Greg’s arm to cut off his question.

  “It’s all right, Zed. I have two sons.” Leon gave a massive sigh. “Correction: I had two sons. Russell was Bob’s little brother. He was fifteen years old. The Germans killed him.” A tear slowly trickled down Leon’s cheek.

  “I’m… I’m sorry, Archie,” Greg apologised.

  Leon patted him on the arm. “It’s all right, Greg. You didn’t know. How could you?”

  “When was he killed, Archie?” Zed asked.

  “Last week,” Leon answered. “We buried them last Saturday.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Archie.” Greg paused before he asked the next question. “But you said them?” Greg asked.

  Leon nodded. “Russ’s girlfriend, Anne, was also killed. She was seventeen. She was the sole survivor of the massacre of Frampton-on-the-Ouse. She was buried beside the rest of her family who were killed in the massacre.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Greg exclaimed.

  “Bloody German bastards!” Zed spat the words out with hatred.

  Leon raised a clenched fist to his heart. “Russ’s death is like a physical pain in my heart, a constant ache that doesn’t go away. Every moment of every day I ask myself: what could I have done differently to have stopped the Germans from murdering my boy? This time last week my boy was still alive…” Leon’s voice trailed away as he slumped further into his chair. His body was suddenly wracked with convulsions and tremors shook his shoulders as he wept uncontrollably.

  “It’s… it’s all right, Archie.” Zed wrapped an arm around his host’s shoulders. “I also… I also lost one of my boys.” He gulped. “My eldest son, Terry, was killed during the invasion last September. He was killed fighting against the Nazis in Wales. My youngest boy, Ray, is up in Scotland with the commandos.”

  “Did the aching ever fade away?” Leon asked as he wiped away his tears with the back of one of his hands.

  “No,” Zed answered grimly. “It never fades. I can still feel it as if it happened yesterday.” Zed turned to look at Leon and placed both of his hands on his host’s shoulders. “Hold onto your ache, Archie. Don’t let it fade. Transform the feeling of love for your son into hate for the Germans: hate will keep you strong.”

  Leon nodded.

  Greg pushed his chair back and stood up. “Tomorrow we will cut off the head of the Nazi snake and we will send Hitler back to hell, where he belongs!” Greg picked up his glass of port and raised it in a toast. “To tomorrow’s mission, gentlemen: good hunting!”

  Leon and Zed stood up and raised their glasses of port “Good hunting!” they chorused.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So tell me, Sturmbannführer Ulrich: how are you enjoying your stay in England?”

  “To be frank, mein Führer, I am not enjoying my stay in England at all,” Ulrich answered bluntly. “It is hard to enjoy living in a place when the locals are constantly trying to kill you.”

  “I see,” Adolf Hitler answered. “Thank you for being so honest with me. I was under the impression that England and Wales had been more or less pacified.”

  Ulrich shook his head grimly. “Far from it, sir. If this is England when it is ‘pacified,’ I dread to think what it would be like if it was unpacified. My Brigade has lost more men in the last nine months at the hands of the partisans then they did at the hands of the British Army during the entire Invasion.”

  “And yet you have survived all of those partisan attacks? I guess that’s why they call you The Cat.” Hitler smiled.

  Ulrich shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve just been lucky, sir. But sooner or later my luck will run out.”

  “That’s very pessimistic of you, Sturmbannführer.” Hitler sat back in his leather upholstered seat.

  Ulrich shook his head. “No, sir. I’m just being realistic. The trouble with being known as The Cat is that every Tom, Dick and Harry with a gun wants to be the last partisan to take away my tenth life.”

  Standartenführer Ernst Fraenkel, the SS Colonel in charge of Hitler’s personal bodyguard, leaned forward from his seat beside the Führer. “I agree that Sturmbannführer Ulrich is being too pessimistic and I also think that he is being too modest, mein Führer.” Fraenkel smiled. “When one of Napoleon’s generals recommended another officer for promotion Napoleon said ‘I know that he’s clever, but is he lucky?’ Luck counts for a lot, Ulrich, and the Gods of War are smiling on you, Sturmbannführer. May they continue to smile on you not just for your own sake, but for the sake of Germany.”

  “Hear, hear,” Hitler said.

  “Thank you, Standartenführer Fraenkel. Thank you, mein Führer,” Ulrich said with a bow.

  “Now tell me, Sturmbannführer, how do we pacify Britain?” Hitler asked with genuine interest. He sincerely wanted to discover what a fighting soldier thought of the current situation in England as opposed to the opinion of the legions of sycophantic bureaucrats in Berlin.

  “The way I see it, sir, we have two options.” Ulrich held up two fingers. “ If we really want to bring peace to Britain we can either invade the Free North, capture or kill Churchill and the King and establish a Government of National Unity with Joyce as Prime Minister, or…”

  “Yes?”

  “We can leave.”

  “Leave?” Hitler reacted as if Ulrich had suggested that he resign his position as Führer.

  “Yes, sir. Leave.”

  Hitler sat back on his se
at. “Well, I tried that before, Sturmbannführer. I offered to leave the British alone.” Hitler was obviously flustered as he smoothed his perfectly ironed trousers. “I assured the British that I did not covet a single square mile, foot or inch of their empire. On the contrary, I told them that the British Empire was a source of inspiration for me, not a source of jealousy. I told them that we would rule Russia the way that they ruled India. Surely there is no greater form of flattery than imitation? I said that I would leave Britain their empire and the world if Britain gave me a free hand in Europe.” Hitler paused before he continued. He clenched his fists on his knees and bared his teeth in anger. “And how did the British react to my generous offer? They turned me down and spat in my face,” Hitler said bitterly. “Like I was the tinpot dictator of some Godforsaken Third World banana republic, instead of the leader of the most powerful country on the planet!” Hitler was literally frothing at the mouth with anger.

  Ulrich waited for Hitler to regain his composure and self control before he began to speak quietly. “With respect, mein Führer, any student of history would have told you that there was never a snowball’s chance in hell that the British would accept that offer. The British have never allowed any one single nation to become the dominant power in Europe - whether it was Phillip II, Napoleon or the Kaiser. It is in the British national interest to have all of the rival European powers, the French, the Spanish, the Russians and ourselves tearing at each other’s throats here in Europe. In the meantime the British were busy conquering the rest of the world. I’m afraid that you have been poorly advised, mein Führer.”

  “So it would seem,” Hitler said.

  “And that is not all, sir.” Ulrich continued. “As far as the British are concerned, it is not good enough that we simply leave Britain. The British will not rest until the status quo has been restored ante bellum…”