The British Lion

by Tony Schumacher

  “Sound the alarm.”

  ROSSETT JERKED BACK from the window as the captain in the courtyard looked up at the building. Instinctively he gripped the stock of the shotgun and then looked toward the corridor that led to the bedroom.

  Meyer and Ruth appeared, Meyer in uniform, minus greatcoat, and Ruth in a long black woolen overcoat, black cap, sturdy black boots, and a black scarf at her throat.

  All in black, except for the yellow star of David stitched onto the right breast of her overcoat.

  Rossett could barely look at the star. Shame flushed his cheeks and his head lowered involuntarily.

  “We need to get going; I think they know I’m here. Meyer, you go first. Distract anyone looking for me. We need transport—­anything with fuel will do. Where is your coat?”

  Meyer looked down at his tunic.

  “In my room.”

  “Your sidearm?”

  “I have it.”

  “Okay, you need a coat and maybe a rifle, if you can get one.”

  “We’ll need to go to the officers’ quarters to get them.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, is it?” Rossett grabbed a tartan blanket off the back of the couch and threw it to Ruth.

  “Fold this and carry it. He’ll need it later.”

  Ruth nodded and Rossett crossed the room. He tried to smile reassuringly, failed, and then opened the door.

  He looked out into the corridor.

  Empty and silent.

  Rossett gestured that Meyer should take the lead. Meyer smiled nervously at Ruth, tugged at the bottom of his tunic, and put on his cap before leaving, closely followed by Ruth, with Rossett bringing up the rear.

  Meyer turned to walk toward the stairs that led to the front entrance, but Rossett grabbed his arm and shook his head.

  “We can’t go out the front. If they know I’m here, that’s where they’ll be forming up.”

  Meyer looked toward the stairs and shrugged.

  “What, then?”

  “The fire exit.”

  Rossett pulled Meyer past him in the direction of the fire exit he’d seen earlier.

  “Where does this lead?” Rossett asked, still holding Meyer’s arm.

  “The kitchens, I think?” Meyer looked at Ruth for approval and she nodded.

  “I think so. Nobody ever uses it.”

  “Go.” Rossett gestured that Meyer should lead the way.

  They had barely reached the door when they heard the shouts from downstairs, echoing in the corridor behind them.

  “Munsch.” Meyer looked at Rossett.

  “Who?”

  “Staff sergeant, rousing the men. He’ll be trouble.”

  “Keep moving.” Rossett looked over his shoulder toward where the sound was coming from, aware it was getting louder.

  They hit the stairs at a run. The escape appeared to be a fairly modern addition to the hall. There was no sign of the wood paneling or portraits. In their place were only bare concrete walls and harsh electric lightbulbs. They clattered down the wooden staircase, making more noise than an SS brass band on Hitler’s birthday.

  All three automatically slowed as they neared the bottom of the stairs. Meyer looked over his shoulder at Rossett, who nodded. Meyer instinctively took hold of Ruth’s hand and reached for the door handle.

  “Hey!” Rossett called, and they looked around. “Let go of her hand. You aren’t going on a picnic. She’s a Jew and you are an SS officer, remember?”

  Meyer looked down at his hand and let go. Ruth frowned at Rossett and took her place close behind Meyer as he opened the door.

  She looked over her shoulder at Rossett.

  “You are very rude.”

  “You have no idea,” replied Rossett before pushing her out the door.

  The kitchen was a blinding cube of white tiles. On one wall a big cast-­iron range sat like a dirty black bruise. A steaming pot of coffee sat waiting for the night shift to enjoy.

  In the center of the room was a ten-­by-­six-­foot oak table, and at that table sat the dispatch driver, hands cupped around a mug as he stared at the three new arrivals who had just tumbled into the room.

  The driver placed the mug on the table and stood to attention, sliding his chair away with the back of his legs as he did so.

  “Who are you?” Meyer asked.

  “Kraus, sir. I’m a messenger from Cambridge command.”

  “Was that you in the Kübelwagen?” Rossett said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was the dispatch you brought?”

  Kraus looked at Meyer and then Rossett, reluctant to disclose the details of the confidential order to an Englishman.

  “Speak,” Meyer added.

  Kraus shifted and then looked at Rossett. “A message from London, sir. There is some lunatic British policeman who has murdered two soldiers at a checkpoint on the London road, and by all accounts an SS officer’s wife. The phone lines are down and my CO thought Coton should be made aware.”

  Meyer looked at Rossett.

  “Murdered two soldiers?”

  Rossett raised his eyebrows, almost apologetically.

  “We need to get going, Meyer.”

  Kraus looked at Meyer and then at Rossett. The driver frowned at the realization that an Englishman who matched the description of the lunatic policeman was standing in front of him. And that next to the Englishman was a confused SS major, who looked like he had just fouled his pants and was about to cry.

  Kraus looked toward the door.

  Rossett produced the shotgun from under his coat in a smooth movement that took everyone by surprise.

  The sound of the hammers on the shotgun whip-­cracked off the tiles in the kitchen.

  “You killed two Germans?” Meyer said.

  “No,” replied Rossett. “One German and a Brit, and we haven’t got time for this right now.”

  “You killed a woman?” said Ruth.

  “Oh, for . . . no.”

  Kraus visibly swallowed, then raised his hands slowly, palms out, unarmed and unwilling to fight.

  “You said a woman was dead?” Ruth spoke to Kraus, who nodded.

  “I was in the radio room when the message came through. All I heard was that an SS major’s wife had been found dead, and that the policeman—­” Kraus paused, and then folded the fingers on his left hand before pointing at Rossett. “And that he was wanted for it.”

  Rossett felt his heart deflate, stutter, and start again. The barrel of the shotgun dipped a few inches. Kraus lifted his chin and tried to take a step backward, only to be stopped by the chair behind him.

  “What else did you hear?” Rossett’s words barely carried across the room.

  “I don’t know much, I’m sorry . . .”

  “What did you hear?” The barrel of the shotgun rose again, as the words came out stronger this time.

  Kraus frowned. “Nothing, sir, I swear.”

  “Did you hear anything about a young girl?”

  “You killed a young girl?” Ruth’s turn to take a step backward.

  “No.” Rossett jabbed the shotgun toward Kraus. “Did you hear anything about a child?”

  “No, sir.”

  Rossett paused, his mind racing, staring at Kraus while behind him Ruth looked at Meyer, who gave a tiny shake of his head.

  “We need to get going,” Rossett finally said.

  Ruth stared at him.

  “Please?” Rossett tried again.

  The door to the kitchen, twelve feet from Rossett, swung open and a young private entered. MP40 slung over his shoulder, he stopped, took in the scene, and started to unsling his machine pistol.

  Rossett fired before the MP40 cleared the private’s shoulder.

  The private slammed backward into the
wall, his helmet ringing against the tiles and dropping forward to cover his eyes as he slid down onto the floor. He patted at the wounds on his chest lightly as if to confirm that they were there, then looked up at Rossett.

  Rossett swung the shotgun toward Kraus, who lifted his hands high above his head and closed his eyes. Rossett moved quickly around the table, through the drifting smoke of the shot, toward the private, who had stopped patting his chest and had rolled down onto his side.

  The private’s helmet dropped to the floor, rattling on the tiles like a spun coin coming to rest.

  He was dead.

  “Are you mad?” Meyer grabbed hold of Ruth and pulled her behind him.

  Rossett crouched down, testing for a pulse on the soldier’s neck while watching Kraus, who was still by the table.

  “This is crazy,” Meyer said, apparently to nobody but himself.

  Rossett ignored Meyer and pulled the MP40 from the private’s shoulder, half dragging him away from the wall in the process.

  The kitchen door opened again. Rossett dropped the MP40 he was holding in his left hand and gripped the barrel of the one that was coming through the door, as it was nervously poked in by the soldier holding it. The soldier tried to jerk the weapon free from Rossett but failed.

  “Shoot him!” Kraus screamed. He charged toward Rossett, who swung the shotgun up under his arm and fired the second barrel at Kraus. The young German took the force of the blast in his upper legs from less than six feet.

  Kraus managed one step before dropping to the floor holding his buckshot-­shredded thighs. He landed at the base of the door, the weight of his body pushing it back against the soldier with whom Rossett was wrestling.

  Rossett let go of the shotgun, which was still fastened to him by the string, and then wrenched the MP40 forward and down. He dragged the soldier holding the gun into the kitchen, shifting Kraus as the soldier squeezed through the gap. Rossett rose from his haunches, coming up behind the soldier while still holding the gun barrel with his left hand.

  Rossett gripped the stock of the MP40 and, using the soldier’s hand as a pivot, spun the weapon up and into the jaw of the young man. Teeth crunched as the metal body of the machine gun slammed home, but still the soldier held on to the barrel as it spun once more in his grasp, and slammed home again.

  The second blow did it. The soldier finally let go and dropped to the floor, spitting blood.

  Rossett rammed the MP40 into the back of the soldier’s head, a solid blow that sent him into unconsciousness. He stood up from the soldier panting, spinning the MP40 and automatically flicking his hand across the bolt to check that it was ready to fire.

  Violence thrummed through his veins like electricity down cables. His teeth were gritted tight and he was breathing fast. He looked up to Ruth and Meyer, who both remained standing by the table, in shock at what they had just witnessed.

  Kraus moaned and clawed at the smooth floor tiles to move backward away from Rossett. His trousers were tattered and blood soaked, and he was ghostly pale with shock, his eyes fixed on the gun in Rossett’s hands.

  Rossett finally found his voice. “Let’s go.”

  Meyer looked at the two men on the floor, then clumsily reached with both hands to his holster and drew his pistol, taking a half step to the left and working the slide.

  Rossett brought the MP40 to bear but didn’t fire for fear of hitting Ruth.

  Meyer froze, frowned, lowered the gun, and then sank to his knees, sliding off the knife Ruth Hartz had just slipped into his back.

  Ruth Hartz was a killer.

  She stood stiffly, eyes on Rossett, holding the bloody knife in her left hand, shaking a fraction until it dropped to the floor.

  The door next to where Rossett was crouching started to open. Kraus’s and the dead soldier’s weight held it closed after the first inch or two of movement. Rossett spun to face whoever was trying to get in.

  There was confused shouting on the other side, then a vicious burst of machine gun fire peppered the door, flicking timber across the floor and riddling a shuddering Kraus with bullets.

  Rossett hit the deck as wood chips rained on his head from the splintering timber.

  Ruth ducked down, dodging right, and hid behind the table as Rossett rolled on the floor. He positioned himself with both feet against Kraus, who was now slumped dead at the bottom of the door. Rossett lay on his back with his legs straight, looking at the ceiling with the machine gun across his chest and his feet pressing against the base of the door via Kraus.

  Another shove, and then another half magazine rattled through into the kitchen, slamming and shattering the tiles on the far wall.

  The shooting outside stopped.

  Rossett sat up, bringing the MP40 to bear. He fired a two-­second burst through the door and heard the shout of an injured man on the other side. Rossett dodged his head left and right to try to see through the holes the rounds had made, but there wasn’t enough light to make out what was going on on the other side.

  He waited, listened, blinking as the cordite stung his eyes, and then heard what he wanted to hear, the sound of someone being dragged down the hall to safety.

  He’d stopped them for now.

  Rossett fired again. There was another shout and he rolled to his left. Rossett quickly got to his feet on the hinge side of the door, standing so his back was up against the wall. He looked at Ruth, who was peeking over the tabletop at him, and then flinched as two or three magazines were emptied into the door from outside.

  Rossett waited for the shooting to stop, then returned fire with the remaining rounds in his clip as he stepped across the door. He picked up the other MP40 from the floor as he dropped the empty one, still smoking, onto the tiles.

  He dashed across the room, grabbed Ruth’s arm, and dragged her up from behind the table as another volley of gunfire came into the kitchen, flicking yet more wood across the floor and finally punching a hole the size of a man’s head in the shattered timber.

  Rossett and Ruth were in the fire escape by the time whoever was shooting had emptied their magazine. Rossett led her up the first flight of stairs at a run, toward a two-­foot-­square frosted-­glass window.

  He used the MP40 to smash the glass and clear the bottom of the frame, then stuck his head through the window to look outside. There was a twelve-­foot drop to the snow below, then forty feet of open ground rising to the bank of trees that ran along the side of the hall.

  “Through here.” Rossett grabbed Ruth, who reached up to the frame. He gripped her rising foot with his left hand and hoisted her through the window, almost launching her outside.

  He heard more shots from the kitchen, slung the MP40 over his shoulder, then reached up to the frame. He felt some pieces of broken glass dig into his palms, and the shotgun under his greatcoat rattled and caught as he was halfway out the window. For a moment he was stuck fast. He wriggled, looked for Ruth below, and saw she was already halfway to the trees.

  He twisted as he flung himself forward, hearing his coat rip as he went. The thick snow broke most of his fall, but it wasn’t deep enough to stop the shotgun butt from slamming into his ribs, punching the air from his lungs as he landed.

  He gasped and rolled onto his back, breath coming in quick, shallow snatches. He dug the shotgun out from under him and opened the breech, quickly ejecting the two spent shells.

  His right hand fumbled in his inside pocket as he stared at the window above. He’d barely managed to insert the shells when a head appeared.

  The gun clacked, clicked, and fired in less than a second at the unlucky soldier who had been the first to follow them through the window.

  Rossett saw the frame erupt in a shower of glass and wood from the blast. The soldier cried out and disappeared back inside.

  Rossett rolled, then rose, still half winded, before starting to run for the trees. He
looked for Ruth ahead of him but she was gone, already deep in cover, and no doubt still running for her life.

  Rossett covered thirty feet before turning and firing again at the window. He missed, as he guessed he would, but he knew that whoever was on the other side wouldn’t fancy sticking a head out, not until they were sure the shotgun was long gone.

  He dropped the shotgun, letting it swing under his coat. He unslung the MP40 off his shoulder as he ran into the cover of the trees. Finally, behind him, he heard the wild firing of a machine gun through the window. Some snow was dislodged from the branches above by the high and wide rounds; it floated down gently.

  Rossett’s breath was just coming back when he ran full force into a low branch that he hadn’t seen in the darkness. It hit him in the throat; he felt his legs flicking forward as the momentum of his body pivoted, spinning him heels over head onto the damp ground.

  He reached for his throat, the breath punched out of him again. He looked up into the trees above, thick bare branches wafting in the gusting wind against the pink sky. Another rattle of machine gun fire sounded behind him, this time lower, chipping the bark off the trees to his right. Rossett gasped for air and reached his other hand to his throat, arching his back for a breath that wouldn’t come, suddenly missing along with half of his senses.

  Out of the darkness came Ruth.

  “Come on.” She held out her hand.

  Another burst of gunfire.

  “Get up!” she was screaming at him.

  For the briefest of moments Rossett saw her beauty again, pale, whiter than the snow, her long fingers reaching for him, beckoning him on.

  He snatched a sliver of air.

  He blinked, tried again, more oxygen filling his desperate lungs.

  Ruth dragged at his arm and Rossett heard shouts behind him. He couldn’t speak. She pulled him, lifting him slightly off the ground, so that he started to turn in the mud under the trees where the snow hadn’t been able to settle fully.

  He nodded and rose, with her help. Another breath sneaked past his battered Adam’s apple and he managed to swallow.

  More shots, closer again, more bark flying and dancing in the darkness, followed by shouts that sounded ever closer.