The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  DEDICATION

  For the greatest generation, who gave me the freedom to write this and you the freedom to read it

  EPIGRAPH

  I have never accepted what many people have kindly said—namely, that I inspired the nation. Their will was resolute and remorseless, and as it proved unconquerable. It was the nation and the race dwelling all round the globe that had the lion’s heart. I had the luck to be called upon to give the roar.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL, PARLIAMENT, NOVEMBER 30, 1954

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Tony Schumacher

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER 1

  November 1946

  Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital, London

  ERNST KOEHLER’S INDEX finger and thumb on his left hand ached like they’d been hit with a hammer.

  Which surprised him, because he no longer had an index finger and thumb on that hand to ache.

  He squeezed what remained of his fist tight and looked at his watch. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat for his cigarettes, then opened the top of the pack with his teeth before shaking one free.

  “There is no smoking here, Major,” the English hospital orderly said quietly.

  The little man was already looking down at the floor, away from the death’s-­head badge on Koehler’s SS cap, before he finished the sentence.

  “Shut up,” said Koehler, cigarette already in his mouth.

  Koehler produced a box of matches and passed them to the Gestapo officer to his right.

  Schmitt looked at them for a moment, and then back up at his boss.

  “Light me,” Koehler said, cigarette bobbing, left hand held up as proof of its ineffectiveness.

  Schmitt fumbled with the box, nerves on edge, before finally managing to light a match and put it to the cigarette. Koehler grunted, drew deeply, and closed his eyes, agitation eased for a few minutes.

  He held out his hand for the matches, and Schmitt passed them back.

  “Thank you,” Koehler said in German.

  Schmitt didn’t reply.

  “Are you okay?” Koehler tried again.

  Schmitt looked at the orderly, then back to Koehler.

  “He doesn’t speak German—­none of them do, it’s the rules.”

  “I still don’t want to talk in front of him,” Schmitt whispered.

  “Do you have a problem?”

  Schmitt shook his head unconvincingly.

  “If you have a problem, you need to tell me,” Koehler tried again, then took another drag on the cigarette.

  Schmitt looked at the back of the orderly’s head once more, then at Koehler.

  “This is wrong, what we are doing. It’s wrong.”

  “Visiting Rossett is wrong?”

  “Yes. Well, no, but yes. After the damage he caused—­” Schmitt broke off and looked at the orderly again, then shook his head. “We shouldn’t be here. Now isn’t the time.”

  Koehler stared at the Gestapo man for a moment, then leaned in close.

  “How long have you worked for me?”

  “Technically I don’t work for you.”

  It was Koehler’s turn to frown.

  “Am I your boss?”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “So, technically, how long have you worked for me?”

  Schmitt looked at Koehler.

  “A month or so, although I’m Gestapo liaison, so technically—­”

  Koehler cut him off.

  “It’s been eventful, hasn’t it?”

  “What has?”

  “This month, it’s been eventful?”

  Schmitt shook his head.

  “If you call chasing Rossett and some Jewish kid all over London for the last week eventful? Well, then, yes, it has; but personally, I’d say it’s been more madness than anything else. Madness that has nearly cost me my job, and my life.”

  “But you are alive, Schmitt, and if you want to stay alive, you’ll stick with me while I sort this out.”

  “We’re German officers.” Schmitt looked at the orderly again, subconsciously lowering his voice as he continued, even though he was still speaking in German. “We shouldn’t have to sort things out. Things should be done correctly in the first place.”

  “You just follow my lead. If you want to stay alive, follow my lead.”

  Schmitt shook his head.

  “When this is over I want out of your department.”

  “I want out of your department . . . sir,” Koehler replied, then regretted it.

  “I want out of your department, sir. I can’t operate like this, this way that you work, breaking rules, running wild. I can’t do it. I want out. If you give me your word I can go, I’ll do as you say.”

  Koehler put the cigarette back in his mouth as he looked into Schmitt’s eyes. He pondered the offer, taking the time to take a deep drag and weigh up his options; finally, he exhaled and spoke.

  “You follow my lead this morning with Rossett, and then I’ll recommend your transfer.”

  “Thank you.”

  Koehler nodded, then nudged the orderly.

  “How much longer?” Smoke drifted from his nose and mouth as he spoke, this time in English.

  “I don’t know, sir, maybe ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  “Maybe less, it all depends . . .”

  The orderly didn’t finish his sentence. Koehler had already pushed through the double doors and was limping up the middle of the half-­empty ward. Schmitt sighed heavily and followed.

  There were eighteen beds, occupied by men in various states of distress, but Koehler didn’t pay attention to them. He headed straight for the one at the top of the ward on the left-­hand side. The bed that had curtains drawn around it and two bored SS guards sitting at its foot.

  The two guards stood up when they realized there was a uniformed SS major limping his way toward them. One of the guards dropped a newspaper on the floor, made to pick it up, then thought better. He eventually made an awkward attempt at standing to attention, half up, half down,
MP40 swinging in its sling in front of him.

  Koehler ignored the guards, pulled back the curtain around the bed a few inches, and stepped inside. A doctor was bent over the patient and another orderly stood behind him, holding a tray of bloodied bandages and cotton wool. Both men turned to Koehler, who looked first at the tray and then at the doctor.

  “Get out,” Koehler said.

  “I’m treating this man.” The doctor turned to face Koehler.

  The orderly was less belligerent. He stepped backward through the gap in the curtains without a word, like a bad comedian glad to get off the stage.

  The English doctor held a thick cotton wool wad in front of him, bloody proof of his need to be there.

  “You need to wait until I’m finished.” This time the doctor’s voice was stronger, given weight by years of telling ­people what to do and them doing it.

  “Get out,” repeated Koehler flatly.

  “I’ll do no such thing. I’m—­”

  “Schmitt.”

  Schmitt appeared through the curtains and stared at the doctor.

  “Herr Major?”

  “Take the doctor outside,” Koehler said in English for the doctor’s benefit.

  “I’m treating this man; you can’t just walk in here. I refuse to leave. This man is my patient. He—­”

  “And shoot him?” Schmitt said in English, staring at the doctor, who fell silent, lowering the bandage slowly to his side.

  “Not yet,” replied Koehler flatly, eyes still on the doctor.

  The doctor looked at Schmitt, then at Koehler, and quietly stepped out through the curtains. Schmitt nodded to Koehler and followed the doctor out of the gap before closing it quietly behind him. Koehler listened to their footsteps fade away farther down the ward, Schmitt following his earlier orders to move everyone out of earshot. Koehler waited, then turned and looked down at John Henry Rossett, who stared back at him through heavy-­lidded eyes.

  “Hello, John,” Koehler said in English, well aware that Rossett’s German was terrible.

  “Ernst,” Rossett replied through cracked lips.

  Koehler took another drag of his cigarette. He noticed Rossett’s eyes following the smoke as he took it out of his mouth.

  He held up the cigarette to Rossett.

  “Can you?”

  Rossett nodded, so Koehler held the cigarette to his lips and watched as he took a drag.

  Rossett closed his eyes before letting the smoke rise back out of his lungs and float to the ceiling. He finally looked up at Koehler, managed a half smile of thanks, then closed his eyes again.

  Koehler put the cigarette into his own mouth before lifting the loose cotton wadding from Rossett’s stomach to reveal an inch-­wide open wound. The wound had a faint whiff of infection, and Koehler softly tutted before gently placing the dressing back down.

  “How’s the hand?” Rossett whispered, eyes still closed.

  “Fucked. Index finger and thumb gone.” Koehler held up his gloved left hand, but Rossett still had his eyes closed.

  Koehler shrugged, looked at it himself and then dropped it to his side.

  “Sorry about that,” Rossett whispered.

  “You didn’t do it.”

  “No.”

  “How’s the stomach?” Koehler put the cigarette back to Rossett’s lips.

  Rossett took the barest of breaths, struggling to breathe life into the ember at the tip.

  “It went straight through, came out clean the other side,” he finally said after giving up on the cigarette.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do it.”

  “No.” Koehler smiled, then sat down on the edge of the bed. His weight caused the mattress to sag, and Rossett groaned as gravity made him shift slightly. Koehler half rose, then settled again, this time more gently.

  “I need to sit. I’m sorry, this leg is killing me,” Koehler said. “I took a round through the calf in the firefight at the pub, when you were trying to get away with the boy and Kate.”

  Rossett opened his eyes.

  “Me and you got pretty banged up.”

  “Lucky to be alive.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Koehler chuckled.

  “I think so.”

  They sat in silence for a while until Koehler spoke again.

  “I can’t believe you threw it all away. You had a good job, good living, quiet life, and you go and throw it all away for one Jewish kid.”

  “Throw it all away?”

  “We had it good, and you risked screwing it up like that.” Koehler looked around for somewhere to get rid of the cigarette. “You threw it all down the drain.”

  “I was already down the drain.”

  “You had everything.”

  “Everything?” Rossett opened his eyes again. “I worked for you rounding up Jews, just so you could cart them off to . . . well, God knows where.” Rossett paused as he drew another shallow breath and looked at the ceiling above his bed. “I have no family, no home, no future, and no friends.” Another pause, another shallow breath. “I didn’t throw anything away, Ernst, because I didn’t have anything to throw away. That child, Jacob, he . . . I don’t know.” Rossett looked for the words. “He made me feel human.”

  Koehler gave up looking for somewhere to put the cigarette and settled for dropping it on the floor. He leaned forward slightly so that he could rest his elbows on his knees, staring at the butt that was still smoking next to his boot.

  His head hung low on his weary shoulders.

  “I was your friend,” Koehler finally said.

  “You were trying to kill me.”

  “I was doing my job.”

  Rossett chuckled, then grimaced as his stomach tightened.

  Koehler looked up from the cigarette butt, waiting for Rossett’s pain to pass before speaking again.

  “We’re part of a machine, John. I don’t like it any more than you do, but the fact is, we are part of a machine. We’re told to round up the Jews in London, so that’s what we do. What happens to them, where they go, it isn’t our concern. You taking that child, helping him, stopped you doing what you were supposed to do, and that nearly caused the machine to break down.” Koehler rubbed his hand again. “If I didn’t try to fix what was broken, it would have been fixed by someone else. I had no choice but to do what I did. You have to remember: whatever I think about the machine, how I feel about what it does, it doesn’t matter. If I don’t do what I’m supposed to do . . . I die.” Koehler rummaged in his coat pocket for his cigarettes again, then thought better of it. He looked back at the cigarette butt on the floor before continuing, his voice lower this time, softer. “I still have my family, John. They mean everything to me. I couldn’t risk their future, not for you, not for the Jewish kid you were trying to help, and not for the Jews we round up. I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m here to fix things—­between us, and between you and my bosses. We need to get you back in the machine before it is too late,” Koehler said, half turning his head to look at Rossett again, checking his reaction.

  “What if I don’t want to go back into the machine?”

  “You don’t want to start thinking like that, trust me. You need to get back on board and quickly, while we can still keep some sort of lid on this.”

  “How?” Rossett opened his eyes again.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Am I going to prison?”

  Koehler shrugged, removed his cap, and ran his right hand through his thick blond hair.

  “I still don’t understand. Why did you do it?” Koehler looked at his cap. He gently straightened the death’s-­head badge as he waited for Rossett’s answer.

  Rossett swallowed, staring up at the ceiling, looking for the words befo
re he finally replied.

  “Saving the boy, getting him away from it . . . from this . . . this place.”

  “London?”

  “England, Britain, what it’s become.”

  “One kid? You’ve helped send thousands to . . . wherever they go to.”

  Rossett looked at Koehler. “I wanted it, helping him . . . I wanted it to save me. I woke up, looked around at what I’d done, what I was doing. I wanted him to save me from what I . . . what we were doing.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, John”—­Koehler nodded his head to the injury on Rossett’s stomach—­“you don’t look much saved.” Koehler spun his cap in his fingers slowly.

  The edges of Rossett’s mouth twitched and he went back to staring at the ceiling.

  “I feel saved. I feel better inside than I’ve felt in years. Doing something good, instead of doing what we usually do. Whatever happens to me from now, I know I did the right thing for Jacob.”

  “But not for yourself?”

  “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “I had someone other than myself to think about, for the first time since my wife and son died. When they were blown up by the resistance, something in me . . . stopped working. Some part of me changed. I thought I was broken forever.” Rossett paused, and then went back to looking at the cracked hospital ceiling. “I don’t know, Ernst. That kid brought me back to life; he made me see what I’d become. I had someone to care about, to look after, and to do the right thing for. All this . . .” Rossett pointed at his stomach. “It was worth it. It was all worth it to find myself again.”