The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  The 1st, 2nd and 3rd Brigades were English. The 4th Caledonian Brigade had two Scottish battalions, a Northern Ireland battalion and a mixed battalion containing men from all four home nations. They had been given discipline and obeyed any orders. The 2nd Brigade held and administered the prison island of Guernsey and the 3rd Brigade controlled the work city of Coventry. The Northern Irish and mixed battalions of the Caledonian brigade, were stationed in Belfast. The SS were his barbarian killing machine and he still wondered at the wisdom of his promise to the Fuhrer.

  Commander Stafford Cole, head of the State Police, which was popularly known as the British Gestapo, turned from the window. His eyes were hooded and he had a cigarette in a holder. Mosley thought he might as well give him a monocle and send him to Hollywood for all the use he had been. The State Police was a political intelligence network with about a thousand officers located in units in the major cities of the country. Unfortunately, it was led by a man with more affectations than brains.

  The Prime Minister instead put his trust in Guy Burgess, who sat in one leather armchair, and Philby, who sat in another. The heads of internal and external security for the United Kingdom were the true professionals.

  Burgess said, ‘The plans are in place, sir. We’ve been over it many times.’

  Mosley nodded and tapped his fingers on the mantelpiece, a morse code asking for reassurance. Burgess, it seemed, had to provide it. Once more, he went over the sequence of planned events.

  ‘The student, Simon Humphrey, will be taken into custody tomorrow. We will ask him to confess and tell us where the fourth gunman is. We will tell him that if he doesn’t tell us, we will level Ollerton. That should be incentive enough for him to talk.’

  ‘And if he does tell us?’

  ‘We level the village anyway, as you promised the Fuhrer.’

  Mosley glanced at General Sinclair.

  ‘Your men are ready?’

  ‘They are, sir. The 1st and 2nd battalions of the Caledonian Brigade have moved south and are in camp at Chester. Two battalions of the 1st Brigade have gone north to cover during their absence. The 1st Battalion of the Caledonians will undertake the operation. The 2nd Battalion will remain in Chester in strategic reserve.’

  The Prime Minister nodded. It made sense to have the Scots come down to do the job. His English SS might balk at killing an entire English village.

  ‘This will send a message, sir,’ said Philby. ‘Perhaps after all these years of peace and prosperity, the great British public have become complacent. Security comes at a price. They will value it all the more, afterwards.’

  ‘I hope you are right, Kim. We’ve never done this before.’

  ‘We’ve never had to,’ said Philby. ‘If you hadn’t offered, the Fuhrer would have demanded. The special relationship would have come under threat. It does not take a great leap of imagination to guess how the Fuhrer would have reacted. He could have sent his own troops to do the job, and they would have stayed.’

  Burgess said pointedly, ‘The Fuhrer will remember his friends. Particularly at a time like this.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course he will,’ said Mosley. ‘And a price must be paid. There will be no repercussions?’

  Burgess said, ‘There will be shock. People will be upset but that will soon pass and they will feel grateful that it wasn’t their village, their town. The major emotion will be fear and that makes people very pliable. There will be no repercussions.’

  Sir Oswald Mosley knew they were right and that he would emerge stronger, both in Britain and in Europe, but he was not so distant from the people that he did not feel for them. The village obviously harboured a core of dissenters but there would be innocents there, as well. Ordinary men and women who would know nothing about plots but who would have to suffer the same fate as their neighbours.

  He wondered why agitators still took the risk when they knew the consequences. All those lives wasted and a village that had lived more than a thousand years removed from the face of the earth. And for what? A futile homicidal gesture. He felt sorry for the innocents but it was necessary they should be punished along with the guilty. It would remind the populace that peace had its price.

  Chapter 21

  December 31. Ollerton

  The knock at the door was at 8 30 in the morning. The Colonel thought it might be Kevin Andrews, the postman, but his smile froze when he saw the two men in dark overcoats.

  ‘Colonel Humphrey? I’m Inspector Singleton, State Police.’ He was tall and dark and had a well-trimmed moustache. He showed an identity card. ‘This is Sergeant Brown. May we come in?’

  They stepped past him and into the hall. He knew bluster would do no good so he tried to remain composed.

  ‘What do you want, Inspector?’

  ‘A word with your son, Simon.’

  ‘Why? What’s he supposed to have done?’

  ‘Probably nothing at all, but we’re talking to all students from Durham University.’

  Singleton smiled but this was not a friendly visit. Marjorie Humphrey came to the door of the kitchen. The smell of the bacon on the grill wafted into the hall.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘These gentlemen are police officers,’ the Colonel said, desperately trying to speak with a calmness he didn’t feel. ‘They want to talk to Simon. They’re talking to all students from Durham. It’s routine. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’

  ‘Quite right, sir. Is your son at home?’

  ‘He’s in bed. I’ll go and get him.’ He hesitated in case they suggested otherwise but they didn’t. ‘Would you care to wait in the study?’

  ‘That’s all right, sir. We’ll wait here. We need to talk to him at the police station in Knutsford. Some photographs for him to look at. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Right.’

  The Colonel went upstairs and heard his wife offering them a cup of tea. The Sergeant remained by the front door, a swarthy man who needed a shave. The Colonel knocked on the door of his son’s bedroom and went inside and switched on the light. Simon lifted his head from the pillow and blinked bleary eyes.

  ‘Have I slept in?’ he said.

  ‘The Gestapo are downstairs. They want to ask you questions.’ The bleariness went. Simon paled. ‘They say it’s routine. They’re questioning everyone from Durham. They want you to go to Knutsford Police Station to look at some photographs.’ The Colonel shrugged. ‘It’s routine.’

  ‘Right.’ Simon got out of bed. ‘Have I got time for a wash?’

  ‘I’d be quick. Best not to keep them waiting.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ They looked at each other, unspoken questions hanging between them. ‘I haven’t done anything, dad.’

  ‘I know you haven’t. Just answer their questions and you’ll be back by lunchtime.’ The Colonel forced a grin. ‘I’ll buy you a pint in the Bull.’

  The two embraced and felt each other’s tension.

  ‘It’ll be okay, dad. You’ll see.’

  The Colonel nodded and went back downstairs and made small talk with Inspector Singleton, who was drinking a mug of tea. Simon followed five minutes later and introductions were made.

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Humphrey. If you could go with Sergeant Brown? I have a few questions to ask your parents.’

  Simon put on a coat and scarf and nodded to his mother and father.

  ‘See you in a bit,’ he said.

  The door closed.

  'Now, Inspector,’ said the Colonel. ‘What are these questions you want to ask?’

  ‘All in good time.’ Outside, a car started and drove away. He smiled. ‘I didn’t want to alarm the young man, but I wonder if I could have your permission to search the house?’

  ‘Now look here,’ the Colonel started to say, but stopped when Singleton removed a piece of paper from an inside pocket.

  ‘I have a warrant but it looks so much better on the report if you give your permission.’

  Marjorie came closer to h
im, so they were standing side by side.

  ‘Of course you have our permission,’ she said. ‘We have nothing to hide. But if you make a mess, I shall complain to your superior.’

  Singleton smiled and opened the front door and four men, dressed in civilian clothes, were already waiting to come in. He nodded and they entered and went straight upstairs.

  ‘Perhaps we should wait in the kitchen?’ he said. ‘The smell of that bacon has made me quite hungry.’

  The Colonel knew this wasn’t routine. He sat down in the kitchen and drank tea while Marjorie made Inspector Singleton a bacon sandwich. He glanced out of the window at a morning that was dark and grey and, for a second, his heart stopped beating. An SS soldier, carrying a machine pistol, was at the bottom of the lawn. He looked round the garden and saw two more, strategically placed, guarding the house.

  Simon Humphrey travelled in silence in the back of a black Wolsley police car. The sergeant sat alongside him and another man in plainclothes was in the front passenger seat. The driver was a uniformed constable. He watched the countryside slip by and wondered whether this might be the last time he saw it but told himself not to be so bloody dramatic. He had done nothing wrong, had joined no proscribed society, and he had no friends who might have been involved in the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich.

  He also had no sympathy for Heydrich; the swine had deserved to die. If the world could be changed by a single assassination then he might well have been involved, but he knew it couldn’t, that there was always the organisation of the state behind every criminal like Heydrich, waiting to close ranks and take vengeance. Assassination was not the answer; he only wished he knew what was.

  The police station at Knutsford was a red brick building next to the grey stone splendour of the Victorian courts where magistrates sat and Quarter Sessions were held. He had driven past often enough, and had parked occasionally on the cobbled forecourt when the courts were not in session, but had never been inside. The courts were not sitting today and the forecourt was filled with troop carriers that bore the forked lightning flashes of the SS. Soldiers stood around in groups, smoking cigarettes. The Wolsley drove round the back and into the police yard. He was led inside, noted the cells to his left, and saw a Police Sergeant he knew standing by a charge desk holding a mug of tea.

  He had been the village bobby at Ollerton when Simon was a youngster, PC Devlin, famed for his rattling bicycle. He would give young miscreants a clip round the ear rather than take official action or tell their parents. They nodded to each other but the sergeant did not look at ease.

  Simon was taken into an interview room where he was asked to empty his pockets. Routine, he was told. His belongings were placed in a brown paper bag and the State Police sergeant who had accompanied him in the car, gave him a body search through his clothes. Routine, he was told.

  Then he was left alone, to wait and worry. He had no watch to tell the time, no one to ask how long they would need him or where the photographs were he was supposed to look at. He understood the psychology. He wanted to bang on the door but sat and worried, as he was supposed to.

  By the time the two men came in he was ready to confess. These were men he hadn’t seen before. They wore good quality suits and shirts and silk ties. They sat on one side of the table and he sat on the other. They did not introduce themselves and the one wearing the red tie said, ‘Do you have anything to tell us?’

  ‘The only thing I can tell you is that I was once in possession of two illegal magazines.’ As soon as he said it he felt better. ‘They were pushed under my door at college. The magazines were propaganda. Faked photographs and allegations about work camps. Anyway, I wasn’t interested. I was annoyed that anyone might think that I was. I burned the magazines.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s it. Nothing else was ever pushed under my door and no one made a direct approach. I did not know Paul Routledge and I do not know anyone connected to him.’

  The man in the red tie said, ‘Do you know Ferdinand Kersten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know Peter Bergfeld?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were both involved in the assassination of Reichsfuhrer Heydrich. They are both dead. Mr Bergfeld was questioned for several hours before he died. We have people who can be very persuasive. If we introduce them to you, I can assure you, you would become very talkative.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  Simon felt panic rising. He kept it at bay by telling himself they were purposely trying to frighten him. This would be happening at police stations all over the country and some student, somewhere, would tell them what they wanted to know. He wished it were soon so they would leave him alone.

  The two men looked at each other.

  The man in the red tie said, ‘I think we’re done.’

  They got up and left the room. Simon felt a flush of relief. Was that it? The door opened again. This time it was two uniformed State Police officers in black and wearing jackboots. They wore side arms and carried truncheons.

  ‘You. This way,’ one said.

  He followed them along a corridor and down stone steps. They went along an underground passage that had tiled walls and a whitewashed ceiling. He guessed the passage led to the courts next door. It was a cold, lonely and perplexing walk. Was he to appear in court? They entered an underground hall with a desk and chair and two sets of staircases going up, presumably to the two courts. Off the hall were cells. Sergeant Devlin held a large metal ring on which were keys. He dropped them on the desk. His face was drawn and he didn’t speak to or look at the State Police. He stepped in front of Simon so that the three of them had to stop.

  ‘All right, lad?’

  Simon tried to smile.

  ‘So far, Sergeant.’

  ‘Chin up.’

  The State Police officers pushed Simon past and towards an open cell. He looked over his shoulder as he went in but the sergeant was already walking away along the passage back to the police station. The cell had whitewashed walls and a stone-flagged floor. One of the walls had a shelf built into it that was surfaced with slatted wooden boards. There was no mattress. A tin bucket stood in a corner. The courts had not been sitting over Christmas and there was no heating. It was so cold that their breath frosted the air.

  ‘Take your clothes off.’

  ‘What?’

  He didn’t see the blow coming. The truncheon hit him on the side of the head and knocked him to the floor. He lay there, in shock and pain. A boot kicked him hard in the side and he curled into a foetal position.

  ‘We can kick you all day. We don’t mind. Get up and take your clothes off. Now.’

  He struggled to his feet, his mind blanked by fear, and began to undress. When he slowed, one of them tapped him on the head with a truncheon. The pain was an explosion and he began to cry. He told himself he shouldn’t cry; he couldn’t cry. He shouldn’t let them see him like this. But the situation was so unreal and the terror so complete that he couldn’t control the tears. Worse, he feared he might not be able to control his bladder.

  Simon removed everything. He was naked and his clothes were in a pile on the floor. He hoped this was a search. Nothing more, just a search. One of the officers pushed his clothes and shoes out of the door with his foot. He stood naked, his hands at his crutch, shivering with both cold and fear. At least, the tears had stopped. The man in front of him smirked and slapped the truncheon in the palm of his hand.

  ‘So you go to university,’ he said. ‘I suppose you think that makes you better than us?’

  ‘No.’

  The man hit him with the truncheon on his elbow and he cried out.

  ‘You call me sir.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir. Three bags full, sir. You’re full of shit, sir.’ Without warning he began to hit Simon around the head with the truncheon. When he raised his arms to protect himself, the second man kicked him between the legs. The pain engulfed him and he fell to the floor and went back in
to the foetal position and his screams echoed around the bare walls below the empty courts.

  The men stopped and one laughed.

  ‘He’s not so fucking clever now. He’s pissed himself.’

  They left and the door thudded shut. He listened to the key turn and welcomed it as sweet relief. He lay on the cold flagstones and cried and wondered how this could be happening. Eventually, when the cold of the floor became too much, he crawled onto the wooden-slatted bunk and lay huddled and in pain and wondered when they would return.

  Col Humphrey telephoned Willie Ashford at his business in Knutsford and explained what had happened.

  ‘It’s four o’clock and he’s still not back. They won’t tell us anything and they won’t let me leave the village. The lad’s done nothing, Willie. He’s done nothing. But being held bloody incommunicado is getting me down.’

  ‘Did they find anything in the search?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. They made a hell of a mess. Actually, I’m glad they did. It’s given Marjorie something to do. But I feel like a spare part.’

  ‘Are they still there?’

  ‘There’s a car parked outside the front and they had bloody SS in my garden this morning.’

  ‘How is Marjorie?’

  ‘You know Marjorie. She’s bearing up and being practical. I’m at my wit’s end.’

  ‘Now take it easy, old boy. You know how long-winded officials can be. Look, I’ll walk up to the police station and see what I can find out. I’ll see you in the Bull at six. Okay?’

  ‘Thanks, Willie. I’m grateful.’

  Willie had been out of town for most of the day. He had been to Altrincham to treat clients to a new year’s lunch. The talk in the office when he had got back was of the convoy of SS troops that had been parked outside the courts. Scottish SS troops.