Froth appeared the corner of his mouth and the twitch worsened. Fritsch tried to become a statue. His future was in the hands of the gods and this particular one was insane. Dr Brandt gave Hitler a drink of water and dabbed the froth from his mouth with a handkerchief.
Obergruppenfuhrer Heines looked at the documents in the file Fritsch had given him.
‘Fuhrer, we need to act swiftly,’ he said.
‘Yes, yes.’ He rocked himself in the armchair and the baggy uniform made him look like an old turtle. ‘But who can I trust?’
‘These officers can be trusted,’ Heines said, a statement for which Fritsch silently pledged eternal gratitude. ‘They brought the evidence direct to you.’ Heines glanced at them. ‘Who else knows?’
‘No one in Berlin,’ said Koch.
‘You are sure the tape is genuine?’ said Heines.
‘Burgess had it tested,’ said Fritsch. ‘It’s genuine.’
Hitler said, ‘Bormann. Bring me Bormann. I want to watch him die.’
Heines was looking through the documents that supplied an extended list of 83 senior SS officers in Germany, Western Europe and the East.
‘This will not be easy,’ he said. ‘We will have to arrest half the High Command.’
Koch said, ‘The logistics are challenging but not impossible. We can call it an operational training exercise to explain the movement of troops. We could call it Clenched Fist. We clench it around our enemies.’
‘Clenched fist,’ said Hitler. He banged the armchair again. ‘Gunther? You and Koch organise it. Use only the most trusted. And tell them, afterwards, afterwards there will be positions to fill.’
Chapter 19
December 26. Ollerton
The Boxing Day football match between the Black Bull and the Farmer’s Arms had first taken place in 1918 to celebrate the end of the Great War and had continued ever since. Battle commenced at 10 o’clock in the morning so it could be concluded in time for both pubs to open at noon and welcome home the winners and losers.
Barry Wilson, the son of the landlord, was in goal for the Bull who had won the fixture the previous year and had become holders of the Ollerton Shield. Headmaster Bob Harvey was captain and centre-half, Brian Ogilvy was an attacking wing half and Simon Humphrey was on the right wing. The vicar, the Rev James Beatty, was referee.
Some players nursed hangovers onto the pitch which was at the back of the Junior School. Kevin Andrews, a large raw-boned red headed young man was the Bull’s centre forward. ‘I’ve got clog dancers in me skull,’ he said. ‘Nothing on me head until the second half.’
Barry had bought himself a new camera for Christmas, a 35mm German Leica, and he asked Ruth Ogilvy to take a team photograph before the start.
'Say cheese,’ said Ruth.
‘Caerphilly,’ said her brother Brian.
Grey scudding clouds and an occasional thin drizzle did nothing to lift spirits but, once the game started, tribal sporting instincts took over and players clattered into each other with gusto, cheered on by a small crowd clustered on the halfway line. Thirty minutes into the first half, Simon Humphrey broke down the wing and crossed the ball high and hard from the by-line. Kevin Andrews temporarily forgot the throb of his hangover, jumped and headed the ball into the net. The team ran to congratulate him as the centre forward sat on the ground holding his head in his hands.
‘You bastard, Sy.’
Ruth, Sally Beevers and Helen Roberts wore waterproofs and shared a golf umbrella. Among other Black Bull supporters were Dr Frank Beevers, Tony and Susan Ogilvy from the shop, parents and customers, and Archie Roberts and his son Ronald, home unexpectedly for Christmas from the National Political School at Bishop Auckland.
At half time, the teams clustered round their respective managers to discuss tactics. The Black Bull team manager was landlord George Wilson.
‘Bang it down the middle to Kev. They’ve no defence.’
‘Then who’s kicking lumps off me?’
‘Kick ‘em back, you soft sod.’
Simon grinned at Brian Ogilvy.
‘I like these technical team talks,’ he said.
They sucked oranges and drank diluted barley juice.
‘I could do with a pint,’ said Barry Wilson.
They could see the clock on the church tower through the skeletal arms of the trees. It was two minutes before eleven o’clock.
‘Keep a clean sheet and I’ll buy it,’ said Simon.
‘You’re on, Snooty.’
The vicar blew the whistle and the teams ran onto the pitch. The clouds still scudded but the rain had stopped. Midway through the half, the ball was centred along the ground and Kevin Andrews shoulder-charged his marker out of the way and hit it into the net.
The Colonel and Paddy the Labrador turned up for the last 15 minutes. A quarter of an hour of support was all his son could expect on a morning like this. He planned a couple of laps round the field and back to the pub for opening time but he had counted without Archie Roberts and his abominable son Ronald.
‘Morning, Colonel,’ said Roberts.
‘Archie. Ronald.’
Ronald Roberts was in uniform and wearing a black leather greatcoat that was definitely not standard issue and had probably been custom tailored at his father’s expense. He attempted to click the heels of his boots but the mud made a squelching sound.
‘I believe we’re winning,’ the Colonel said.
‘Two nil,’ said Roberts. ‘I was thinking, perhaps next year I could provide a cup?’
‘Very generous, Archie, but they already have a trophy. The Ollerton Shield.’
‘That piece of old wood?’
‘It was carved in 1919 by one of the chaps from the Farmers. They won the first game. It’s gone to the winners ever since.’
'Bit worn, though. It’s got a split that someone’s mended rather badly.’
‘That would be Joe Andrews in 1938. The grandfather of the centre forward.’
Roberts nodded, unconvinced.
‘Wouldn’t they prefer a silver cup?’
‘I don’t know, Archie. You’ll have to ask them. But don’t be upset if they prefer to stick with tradition.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. I wouldn’t want good intentions to be misconstrued.’
‘Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I have to keep Paddy walking otherwise his limbs seize up in this weather. Bit like mine.’
‘I’ll walk with you.’ They strode along the touchline, leaving Ronald Roberts standing alone. ‘This Durham connection’s a bad business,’ Roberts said. ‘I don’t suppose Simon knew Routledge?’
The Colonel had been expecting the question.
‘No, he didn’t know him. Simon’s not a political person. Takes after me.’
‘It’s a shame, though. Him being at Durham. It can’t do much for the reputation of the university.’
‘I’m sure it will get over it.’
‘No doubt, but it leaves a bit of a cloud, at least at the moment. I hear the authorities will be doing security checks on all students at all universities, because of what the swine did.’
‘Simon will have no problems with that.’
‘Of course not. It’s just that young people can be susceptible. Away from home, treated like adults. Sometimes they make the wrong decisions, make the wrong friends. Before you know it, they’re brain-washed.’
‘How’s Ronald doing at Bishop Auckland?’
‘Very well.’ The irony was lost on him. ‘He graduates in June.’
‘He’ll be going to a cadet school in Germany, I take it?’
If Ronald had been one of the chosen few to go to Bad Tolz or an Adolf Hitler officer camp in Germany, the Colonel knew damn well that Roberts would already have told everyone.
‘Erm, no. He decided he wanted to join the real world. He’ll get a posting to an SS battalion here.’
If that was what Roberts considered to be the real world, the Colonel was happy to live in a quiet backwater, as f
ar removed as possible from intrigue and the nastiness of life. He had read the magazines he had found in his son’s bag and had passed them on to Willie. They had the ring of truth about them, a truth he supposed he had suspected all along.
The trouble with the British was that they never complained, queued politely and were used to taking orders from authority. They accepted tax rises and traffic regulations and had an innate belief that the Government was working for the good of the country. At least, they used to. He had become aware of a groundswell of unease that had coalesced around the assassination of Mrs Kennedy. Comparisons were being made between the young and vibrant President of America and all he was striving to achieve, and the ageing dictator Adolf Hitler and his puppet, Sir Oswald Mosley.
More and more people were tacitly admitting that they listened to the banned Voice of America and the new station, Radio Free Britain, which had started within the last month. Politicians, leaders and writers, who had been in self-exile in Canada and America for years, had broadcast suggesting the unthinkable: a return to democracy and the legitimate monarchy. Among them had been Anthony Eden, Malcolm Muggeridge, Michael Foot, Graham Greene, Edward Heath, Anthony Wedgewood Benn, J B Priestley, Clement Attlee and Lord Mountbatten, people he remembered as men of honour who had spoken out against appeasement and the Nazi threat.
When Chamberlain had capitulated and Mosley had taken over the country, the Colonel had thought that Britain, at least, would remain a land of decency. While there was a war to fight, he had done his duty. Afterwards, living in rural isolation had protected him from much that happened but he hadn’t been totally blind and deaf to national and international events.
He now admitted to himself that Britain had not remained a land of decency. Dark and evil deeds had happened. And when a young man like Ronald Roberts, who might otherwise have become a perfectly adequate wholesale butcher in Manchester, was graduating from an indoctrination course as an SS automaton second lieutenant, he knew all things were possible.
They stopped and watched the game for a few moments and Roberts shouted encouragement. Bugger the second circuit. The Colonel decided he would leave now to get away from the gauleiter.
‘You know, if Simon did know anything, he should tell someone,’ Roberts said. The Colonel stared at him but the man’s eyes slid away. ‘I mean, if he did know something, however innocently, it would be best if he confided in someone he could trust. A friend.’ His eyes came back to briefly connect with the Colonel’s. ‘I’d be happy to help. You know, ease the way in official circles so no one got the wrong idea.’
‘Simon doesn’t know anything, Archie. I asked him. But thanks for the offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’
‘What? Yes, of course …’
The Colonel strode off towards the road back to the village green and the Black Bull. He was angry but, as he walked, he realised part of the anger was fear for his son, his wife and his way of life. He knew how smears and suspicions could get out of hand; how, for the sake of Party prestige, Archie or Ronald Roberts could make an accusation that could blight Simon’s future, or worse. Bugger them and bugger the Party.
Simon had told him he hadn’t known Paul Routledge, the young man killed during the assassination of Heydrich. He had heard there was an active cell of the White Rose resistance on campus, but that had been a common enough rumour. If Simon confessed that to Archie Roberts, he would then be required to name the students who had passed on the rumour and the witch-hunt would begin.
He reached the road and his way led towards the church.
God, if You ever do listen to prayers, You might consider tuning in to Radio Free Britain and giving them a helping hand. The sooner, the better.
The outer door of the Black Bull was already open even though there were ten minutes to go before the start of licensing hours. The grey sky seemed to have dropped low enough to touch and made the village claustrophobic. Or maybe that was his mood. Even the Christmas tree in the middle of the green looked forlorn. He went in hesitantly, not wishing to abuse protocol with George still at the match. The game would be over now and the players getting changed in the school hall but it would be some time before they arrived back here.
The pub was warm and reassuring. Lights glinted off glass and brass, a log crackled in the inglenook fireplace and Willie Ashford was already mugging the atmosphere with his pipe, a pint of beer on the bar in front of him.
‘You must bloody live here, Willie.’
Ashford puffed a cloud of smoke and grinned.
‘Fell asleep in your rocking chair, eh Jimmy?’
Maureen Wilson appeared from the kitchen behind the bar.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘All I have to do is wave a beer stained tea towel and you come running.’
‘Sorry, Maureen,’ said the Colonel. ‘But the door was open and it’s cold outside. Besides, I could smell your cooking.’
‘Oh, shut up and have a pint.’ She began to pull the beer. ‘And it’s only pie and peas. Homemade, mind.’
‘Smells delicious,’ said Willie. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting served before the rush starts?’
‘Seeing as it’s you.’ She put the pint on the bar in front of the Colonel and refused his money. ‘I can’t accept money for beer out of hours so it’s on the house. Mind, I can accept it for pie and peas. Two is it?’
She went to the kitchen and left them alone.
‘I’ve just been cross-examined by the bloody gauleiter,’ said the Colonel.
Willie removed his pipe from his mouth and said, ‘Let me guess. Simon, Durham University and the death of a Nazi?’
They had discussed the assassination and its ramifications at length. The whole country was still uneasy. Mosley had ranted on television but so far nothing seemed to have been achieved in the hunt for the killers. At least, nothing had been reported. On a personal level, they both thought the death of Heydrich was good riddance; but it was a shame it hadn’t happened in someone else’s country.
‘I don’t like his attitude,’ the Colonel said.
‘I don’t like him full stop. I like his son even less.’
‘Why is Ronald here? I thought home leave was frowned upon.’
‘Don’t get paranoid, Jimmy. It’s Christmas.’
‘The SS don’t celebrate Christmas. Too Jewish.’
‘Ronald’s got a few days leave, that’s all. He certainly hasn’t been sent here to spy on Simon. I mean, in that greatcoat of his, you can see him coming a mile off.’
‘It’s just worrying. After those magazines, and all.’
‘Students all over the country have seen those magazines. And ordinary working chaps, too. A farmer I’ve known for years, over Mobberley way, showed me one two weeks ago, and he’s not exactly a reactionary type; more interested in yields and subsidies. But he wasn’t happy with what was in it. More people than you would guess have probably seen them; they just don’t talk about it.’
‘Did you listen to the radio last night?’
‘Yes. Rather moving.’
Queen Elizabeth had broadcast a Christmas message on Radio Free Britain. She had talked of her memories of England and Balmoral, her hopes that one day her son Charles could be inducted as Prince of Wales and that the body of her father, the dignified George VI, could be taken home and laid to rest with his ancestors at Windsor. She had mentioned, in glowing terms, all four nations of the union, and had suggested that the time might not be far away when public opinion swept away the puppet king and puppet government.
‘Do you think many heard her?’
‘If they didn’t, they will,’ said Willie. ‘I, for one, tape recorded it.’
‘Then you’re a subversive, as well.’
‘Always have been, old boy. From before Mosley. Don’t tell anyone, but I once voted Labour.’
‘Good God.’
Maureen came back from the kitchen with two dishes containing steaming portions of pie and peas. Willie sniffed the air l
ike a Bisto kid.
‘Food of the Gods, Maureen.’
The inner door opened and Archie Roberts and Ronald came in. Ronald stamped his booted feet and began to take off his greatcoat. His father hesitated and Dr Frank Beevers pushed past them, followed by Tony and Susan Ogilvy. They came directly to join Willie and the Colonel and formed a defensive perimeter. Archie Roberts and Ronald went to stand further down the bar.
George Wilson came in and went straight behind the pumps as the pub began to fill. He took the Ollerton Shield down from the top shelf and placed it in pride of place at eye level behind the bar. A cheer greeted the arrival of the Black Bull’s winning team who were already talking a better match than they had played.
Willie saw the Colonel smiling at the crowd of young men, who were pushing and exchanging banter as the young men of the village had done for generations.
‘Do you remember when we were in the team?’ the Colonel said. ‘We won the shield three years running.’
‘And then lost it for a straight seven,’ said Willie.
‘I’d retired, by then.’
‘Selective memory, Jimmy. You retired for the last two.’
‘Still, three times in a row. We’ve never done it since.’
‘These lads will next year. If they’re still here.’
Chapter 20
December 30. London
Sir Oswald Mosley was nervous. He stood by the fireplace in the study at Number 10 and avoided looking at the portrait of Hitler.
‘This had better work, Kim.’
‘I agree, sir. You promised the Fuhrer.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
SS-General Terence Sinclair said, ‘My men can be trusted, Prime Minister. They will not let you down.’
The German SS had started as a bodyguard unit for the Fuhrer and had grown into a military corps of 300,000 elite troops. Mosley had wanted to produce something similar in Britain but had never been able to attract quality volunteers. Potential officers from military family backgrounds had opted for Sandhurst, leaving him with political fanatics and opportunists to lead a rank and file of violent, ruthless and often sadistic men. Consequently, the British SS consisted of slightly less than 17,000 troopers in four brigades.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 14