Young Lions Roar

by Andrew Mackay

  “But, Colonel, you told me that the only good German is a -”

  “I know what I told you, Alfredo,” Mendoza said. “But I’m not a complete and utter bastard -”

  “Oh yes you are, sir!” Astray interrupted cheekily.

  “Oi!” Mendoza protested. “Less of your insubordination, Astray, or I’ll have you reduced to the ranks so fast it will make your head spin!” Mendoza punched his old friend playfully on the arm. “It’s just that I can recognise a fellow traveller when I see one.”

  “What do you mean by that, sir?”

  “I get the funny feeling that Ulrich also thinks that he’s fighting for the wrong side.”

  “Oh…”

  Mendoza shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “Never mind; you can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.”

  “A big Chinese fellow pulled me right over… a big Chinese fellow pulled me right over… You turned Indian, didn’t you? You turned Indian, didn’t you? Typical Italian, brings a knife to a gun fight… Typical Italian, brings a knife to a gun fight…”

  “I think that we’ve heard enough of the ten o’ clock broadcast, Jordan. You can switch back to the Militia channel now,” Baldwin ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” Corporal Jordan chuckled as he switched channels. “Those BBC Radio Free North messages never fail to amuse me, Captain Baldwin. I can picture dozenvs of amateur Mata Haris and secretive Scarlet Pimpernels sitting around their radio sets listening intently for their special message. Do they not realise that that Jew-loving Bolshevik Churchill and his clique of war-mongering gangsters have lost the war?”

  “Do you really think so, Jordan?” Baldwin asked.

  Jordan guffawed. “I know so, sir. I fought as a Blackshirt in the East End of London against the Reds in the thirties, sir. I was as confident back then that Fascism would eventually triumph as I am now, sir. And here we are!” Jordan smiled like a wolf at lambing time.

  “ And here we are, indeed,” Baldwin said.

  “Anyway, sir,” Jordan said. “I wonder what those messages do mean.”

  “Well, I know what ‘you turned Indian, didn’t you?’ means for starters,” Baldwin answered.

  “What’s that, sir?” Jordan wanted to join in the joke.

  “This.” Baldwin nodded.

  Jordan fell straight onto his front with two giant bloody bullet exit wounds in the centre of his chest. Alan walked over to him, fired his silencer pistol twice more into the back of his head, and spat on the nape of his neck. “Dirty Fascist bastard.”

  The three red flares exploded high up in the pitch black sky.

  “I wonder what those flares signal, Major. Perhaps another British assault?” von Mackensen asked. “A night attack, perhaps?”

  “No, Untersturmführer.” Astray shook his head sadly. “Those flares give the signal to execute Operation Glencoe.”

  “Operation Glencoe?” von Mackensen said with raised eyebrows. “What is that? A private Spanish operation?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  Von Mackensen felt as if he had been punched in the chest. He looked down to see a Legiónary dagger sticking in his heart. He futilely tried to grab the hilt, but missed. “You… you bastard.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Astray said with genuine sorrow. “You seem like a decent fellow… for a German.”

  But Astray’s words of regret were wasted. Von Mackensen was dead before his body hit the ground.

  Baldwin ran in short bursts through the back streets of Berwick-Upon-Tweed, with Alan hot on his heels. They were both acutely aware of the continued resistance of British diehards who were holding out in the hope of a successful British counter-attack to recapture the town. The pair took cover in doorways and behind blown up barricades, British lorries, and the burnt out carcasses of a couple of German Panzers.

  “Captain Baldwin and runner coming in!” Baldwin shouted as he approached the Militia headquarters.

  “Watch out for snipers, sir!” a voice warned in a thick Irish brogue. “Guard, covering fire!”

  “Now, Alan!” The pair sprinted the last twenty yards as a hidden sniper tried to get a lead on them. They just made it as a lump of masonry exploded above their heads. The pair collapsed in an undignified heap inside the doorway. As Baldwin recovered his breath, he thought how ironic it would be if he had been killed by his own side. He smiled as he remembered how Ramón had warned him that this would be a better fate than that of being captured by the British.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Baldwin said with sincere gratitude.

  “My pleasure, sir,” the Irish sergeant answered with a smile.

  “Captain Baldwin and Private Mitchell! What a pleasant surprise!” Mason welcomed the newcomers with a warm smile of genuine affection. “Tell me, what brings you to our neck of the woods? I doubt that you’re out on a stroll for the good of your health!” Mason talked as if Baldwin had dropped in for a cup of tea.

  “You’re right sir; I didn’t run through the streets of the town risking life and limb for the good of my health. I came to ask you a vital question, Major.” Baldwin counted heads as he spoke: Mason, the sergeant, a radio operator and three Militiamen.

  “Oh yes, Captain?” Mason asked with raised eyebrows. “It must be important for you to leave your company headquarters.”

  Alan silently flicked off the safety catch of his Schmessier machine gun and casually stood pointing it in the direction of the sergeant and his four fellow Fascists.

  “It is, sir. You might say that the answer to this question is a matter of life or death…”

  “Now, I’m intrigued,” Mason said with genuine interest and curiosity. “What is this mysterious question, John?”

  “What is your favourite Shakespeare play, sir?” Baldwin asked.

  Alan saw the sergeant’s eyebrow twitch. He knows that there’s something not quite right, Alan thought to himself, as he aimed his machine gun at the Irishman.

  “My favourite Shakespeare play?” Mason answered with a furrowed brow. “Is this a joke?”

  “No, sir. Far from it.” Baldwin put his right hand behind his back.

  “Oh, I don’t know… Julius Caesar?”

  “Wrong answer.” Baldwin shot him twice in the chest with his silencer pistol. Mason timbered onto his back like a lumber jacked tree.

  Alan put first pressure on his trigger.

  “The Scottish play - Macbeth!” the Irish sergeant shouted.

  Time seemed to stand still in the room.

  “That was leaving it a little late, Sergeant. I almost shot you,” Alan said with wide eyes.

  The sergeant was breathing heavily. “You… you took me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “What about these four, Sergeant?” Baldwin asked as he gestured with his pistol towards the remaining Militiamen.

  “Trev’s with me, sir. He’s a sleeper as well.” The sergeant gestured towards the radio operator.

  “Err… the Scottish play - Macbeth.” Trev stumbled the password.

  “And these three, Sergeant…?”

  “Sergeant O’Brien, sir,” the Irish sergeant answered. “Tony’s a convicted rapist and Mitch is a convicted murderer, sir. They only joined the Blackshirts to get out of prison, Captain. We’d be doing the Hangman a favour if we executed these two for him,” O’Brien said matter-of-factly.

  “Please, Sergeant…!” Tony fell to his knees and begged with upraised hands.

  Mitch quickly followed suit and knelt praying, mumbling incoherently, with his face raised towards heaven.

  Alan’s nose twitched automatically as a sudden waft of ammonia assaulted his nostrils. He recognised the reason for that familiar smell. One or both of the criminals had pissed themselves.

  Baldwin nodded. “And the corporal here?”

  “Oh, Dave is a genuine dyed-in-the-wool Fascist, aren’t you, Dave? Can’t you tell by the toothbrush moustache, sir?”

  “Bugger off, you dirty Fenian bastard!” the Corpora
l swore venomously. “I’ve never trusted the Irish! I always knew that you were a stinking traitor!”

  O’Brien raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that rather like the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “Enough idle chit-chat,” Baldwin said impatiently. “Sergeant O’Brien, if you wouldn’t mind doing the honours?”

  “Certainly, sir. It would be my pleasure.” O’Brien cocked his Schmessier machine gun and flicked off the safety catch.

  “Sergeant O’Brien, for the love of God, no…!”

  “Mercy, please…!”

  “I’ll show you boys the same mercy that you showed your victims. May God have mercy on your souls, because I certainly don’t?”

  “No-!”

  O’Brien opened fire.

  The two criminals died begging on their knees whilst the Fascist died defiant to the last.

  “What now, sir?” O’Brien didn’t give the smoking corpses of his former comrades a second glance.

  “Well, Sergeant O’Brien, I guess that proves that you’re genuine,” Baldwin said sardonically.

  “True blue, sir.” O’Brien nodded his head with a smile.

  “Now we signal a general withdrawal and really throw a spanner in the works!”

  “Lay on, MacDuff!” O’Brien said.

  “Just one moment, sir,” Alan said as he crossed the room to Mason’s body.

  “Alan, I shot Mason twice in the chest,” Baldwin said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I think that I can safely assure you that he’s dead.”

  Mason slowly opened his eyes. “Alan… what? What happened?” he asked, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep.

  “You see, Captain? I told you that he’s not dead. We made the same mistake the first time. We shot him in the chest. You’ve got to shoot him in the head to make sure that he’s well and truly dead. Golden Boy here has more lives than a cat.”

  A firework exploded in Mason’s head. “You… Sam! The St George’s Day Massacre!”

  Alan smiled like a lion before it devoured its prey. “You see, Major Mason. I told you that your amnesia wouldn’t last forever and that you would remember what happened one day. Sam botched the job and I’m going to finish it. It’s just a shame that you didn’t remember before you saved my life today on the pontoon bridge.”

  “Why, you… why, you treacherous little bastard!” Mason spat out a globule of blood.

  “I’ve been called worse.” He pointed his pistol between Mason’s eyes. “You know, it’s a damned shame that you turned out to be a dirty, stinking traitor, because you were one of my favourite teachers. Oh well.” Alan shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

  “No, wait -!”

  “This is for Colonel Hook.”

  Mason locked eyes with Alan, smiled grimly, and nodded his head.

  “C’est la guerre.”

  THE END