The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  His offices were in King Street at the bottom of town and he walked up the cobbled street, past Victorian shops that were bright with seasonal lights. He turned left up the hill by the parish church, his long legs eating the distance. It was already dark and bare trees in the churchyard were stark against the night sky. He stopped by the boys’ club and looked across the road at the police station and court building.

  SS military trucks and personnel carriers were leaving the forecourt and a police constable was holding up traffic to allow them onto the main road. They were going in the direction of Ollerton.

  Willie crossed the road.

  ‘Funny time for manoeuvres,’ he said to the constable on traffic duty.

  ‘I’m glad they’re off. The last thing we want is a battalion of Scots in town on New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. But good riddance, I say.’

  ‘Here, here.’

  Willie entered the front office of the police station. Sergeant Devlin was behind the counter.

  ‘Evening, Tom.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Ashford.’

  The sergeant was obviously worried. He glanced at the partially open door that led into the interior of the station. Willie kept his voice low.

  ‘I’ve come about Simon Humphrey. Is he still here?’

  ‘Aye. He’s still here.’

  His tone was serious.

  ‘Will he be released tonight?’

  The sergeant shook his head and was about to speak when the door opened and a smartly dressed man wearing an expensive suit and red tie appeared. The man sensed something was unfinished between Willie and Devlin.

  ‘Everything all right, sergeant?’

  ‘Mr Ashford, here, was asking about Simon Humphrey. I told him he was still helping

  with enquiries.’

  ‘And what is your interest in Mr Humphrey?’

  ‘I’m a friend of the family. His father called me.’

  ‘Right.’ The man seemed to be considering whether it might be worth questioning Willie. ‘Well, as the sergeant said, he is still helping with enquiries.’ He smiled. ‘I’m about to go and see him now. I shall tell him you called.’

  ‘And you are?’ said Willie.

  ‘Detective Inspector Grayson. State Police.’

  ‘When is Simon likely to be released?’

  ‘When he is no longer helping with our enquiries.’

  ‘Is he under arrest?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Will he be?’

  ‘Mr Ashford, I’ve told you the situation. When there is news, we will call his family. Probably tomorrow. Now, I’m sure you have things to do. I know I have.’

  ‘Perhaps I should contact a solicitor.’

  ‘On New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘I have a certain influence in the County.’

  ‘And I have a certain influence in matters of national security. I suggest you leave now, Mr Ashford.’

  Willie remained where he was. He refused to be intimidated but he could tell that Devlin was extremely uncomfortable with the situation.

  ‘I shall take legal advice and I shall return in the morning. Good evening, sergeant.’

  He left the station with a great feeling of unease. Simon was in trouble and he wondered what repercussions the Colonel and Marjorie might face. He wondered what he could tell his old friend when he met him in the Black Bull. Willie walked back down the hill past the church and along King Street to his offices. He went to the spares department and found Barry Wilson, the landlord’s son, about to leave for a farm near Warrington in a delivery van.

  ‘Barry, Simon’s been arrested.’

  ‘Arrested? Snooty? What for?’

  ‘He’s being held at Knutsford Police Station. The State Police took him in this morning. I’ve just been up there but they wouldn’t let me see him.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Why?’

  ‘Because he’s at Durham.’

  ‘They don’t think ..? That’s crackers. Snooty couldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘I thought you would want to know.’

  Barry nodded. He was concerned and puzzled.

  ‘Will he be out for tonight? We’re all meeting in the Bull.’

  ‘He won’t be out until tomorrow at the earliest.’

  They exchanged a frank look.

  ‘This is serious, isn’t it?’ Barry said.

  ‘I think it is. I think it’s very serious.’ Willie glanced past him at the van. ‘Is the delivery necessary?’

  ‘It’s Mr Fairchild. His milking machine’s on the blink again.’

  ‘He doesn’t use it correctly.’

  ‘It’s still on the blink and he needs the part.’

  ‘Then straight home after you’ve delivered it.’

  Barry nodded.

  ‘It’s a bugger, Mr Ashford. Snooty’s not involved in anything daft. It’s just a stupid mistake.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Barry, the world is full of stupid mistakes.’

  Simon lay shivering in the dark. He had never been so cold. But when he heard footsteps outside he prayed they would walk on past and he could be left alone without another beating. The light came on in his cell and blinded him. The door was unlocked and pushed open. Two figures were in the doorway. They were not in uniform. One of the men threw his clothes into the cell.

  ‘Get dressed,’ said the man in the red tie. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  The two men went outside but left the door open. He heard a match strike and caught the aroma of a cigarette. He dressed as quickly as his bruises and shaking allowed, wincing occasionally. God, but the warmth of the clothes felt good. Had they realised their mistake? Would they let him go? They came back into the cell.

  ‘We know you were part of the plot to kill the Reichsfuhrer,’ said the man in the red tie. ‘We will give you until six o’clock in the morning to confess and name other members of the White Rose.’

  ‘But I’m not …’

  ‘If you do not comply, you will suffer the consequences. Or rather, Ollerton will.’ Simon didn’t understand what the man meant. ‘Ollerton will be levelled. All inhabitants will be shot.’

  Simon shook his head.

  ‘You wouldn’t. This is England.’

  The man in the red tie smiled.

  ‘A Sanction can happen anywhere. Think it over. Confess by six o’clock or the SS go in at nine.’

  The two men left and closed and locked the door. They left the light on. Simon sat on the hard wooden slats of the bunk and wrapped his arms round his knees. This was just another threat. They couldn’t seriously consider a Sanction in England. Could they? But he had seen the troops outside the courts when he had first arrived.

  If the threat was real, he was in an impossible position. If he confessed, even though he was innocent, he could save the village. But a confession would not be enough. They would want him to name others and they would not care whether those he named were innocent or guilty: they wanted scapegoats. His despair was deep enough to drown in.

  Willie Ashford left the office at 5 30pm to drive to Ollerton. After four miles, he turned off the main road onto a country lane that was dark and winding. He slowed to thirty through Upper Bedford, where there were lights at the petrol station, the post office and The Dun Cow, and on the Christmas tree outside the parish church. He drove past the gates of his own home and the road looped and came back on itself. Coming round a bend he saw tail lights ahead and slowed his speed. Three cars had stopped ahead of him and, in their headlights, he saw two military vehicles parked at the side of the road, reducing traffic to one lane.

  A tent had been erected in the field on the opposite side of the road and two men were feeding coal onto a fire in a brazier. A lamp hung from a wire that stretched from the tent to the back of an open truck that was illuminated with an interior light. A soldier sat inside the truck wearing headphones and talking into a microphone that hung around his neck. Two SS men wave
d Willie through.

  He drove into Ollerton. The village looked cosy and seasonal. Lights on the Christmas tree in the middle of the green were lit, smaller trees bright with fairy lights were in house windows and the Black Bull glowed with welcome. He parked outside and went in. The Colonel was in his usual place at the end of the bar, Paddy asleep beneath his stool. He was the only customer. Drinkers tended to come out later for New Year’s Eve, with a licensing extension until midnight.

  George was behind the bar, his expression dour. He obviously knew that Simon was with the police. He began to pull a pint without asking and Willie winced at the look of hope on the Colonel’s face.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No. I didn’t see him.’ He took off his coat and draped it over a chair and sat on a stool. ‘I went to the police station and saw Tom Devlin. Do you remember him? Tom might have been more helpful but a Gestapo chap came into the front office and I had to deal with him. He said Simon was still helping with enquiries. He said he’d tell him I’d been there, that we were all asking about him.’

  ‘Did he say when he would be released?’

  ‘He said he would call you, probably tomorrow.’

  ‘Probably tomorrow?’

  ‘I said I would be back in the morning with a solicitor.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘It didn’t seem to worry him. The State Police make their own rules. But they still have rules, Jimmy.’

  ‘I tried a solicitor. Walter Baron at Knutsford. He said they can hold him for 72 hours. If it’s a national security matter, he’s not entitled to a lawyer until he’s charged with something. So far, he hasn’t been charged.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what else to do. And now even the phone’s not working properly. I tried your office half an hour ago but couldn’t get through.’

  George, who was stocking shelves with bottles from the cellar, said, ‘My phone’s completely dead.’

  The door opened and Barry Wilson came in.

  ‘There’s a checkpoint on Top Lane,’ he said. ‘There’s SS, trucks and tents. Even a bulldozer.’ He looked from his father to the two men at the bar. ‘What’s going on, Mr Ashford?’

  Willie felt a constriction in his chest. He remembered his two years in Russia and in particular being turned back by an SS roadblock outside a village 50 miles west of Volgograd. It was ridiculous to even consider that anything similar might be happening in the heart of England.

  ‘I went through a checkpoint on the road from Upper Bedford,’ he confessed.

  ‘You didn’t say anything?’ said the Colonel.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry anybody.’

  Barry joined them at the bar.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ said George.

  ‘Perhaps they think someone is hiding in the village,’ said Willie.

  ‘What?’ said George. ‘Someone connected with the killing?’

  ‘They’re barking up the wrong tree,’ said Barry. ‘Simon had nothing to do with it. They’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘Try telling the authorities they’ve made a mistake,’ said George. ‘You think they might make a search in the morning?’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ said Willie, and hoped it would be only a search.

  Willie left within the hour. There was only one topic of conversation and he didn’t think speculation was good for the Colonel. Besides, Jimmy wanted to get home to Marjorie.

  He drove back the way he had come and the checkpoint was now in full operation with an arc light and soldiers stopping vehicles leaving Ollerton. A car in front of him was directed to turn round on the wide grass verge and go back the way it had come. He stopped his car and lowered his window and offered his identity card. The SS sergeant compared the photograph with Willie’s face and shone a torch into the back of the car.

  ‘Open the boot,’ he said.

  Willie got out and unlocked the boot, aware of the two other soldiers nearby, nonchalantly cradling assault rifles. He recognised their arrogance, had seen it before, and knew its danger.

  ‘What’s the problem, sergeant?’

  The sergeant ignored the question and looked at the address on the ID card. Although Willie’s house was two miles as the crow flew from Ollerton, his postal address was Upper Bedford.

  ‘You can go.’

  Willie got back in the car and for the first time realised how tense he was; how his act of poise had masked, even from himself, his anger and trepidation. He drove away from the roadblock. Other tents had been erected and he had smelled cooking. He wondered how many men were circling Ollerton and why?

  At home, he went straight to the telephone in the hall and lifted the receiver.

  ‘It’s dead.’ Eliza had come out of the room behind him. ‘Has been since about five o’clock.’ He knew the concern was showing in his face. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘There are roadblocks around Ollerton. The SS have sealed off the village.’

  ‘Good God. Why?’

  ‘Simon Humphrey has been arrested. They think he had something to do with Heydrich.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’ Her reaction was the same as everyone else’s. ‘Had he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Jimmy says not.’

  ‘How are Jimmy and Marjorie?’

  ‘I believe the expression is bearing up. Jimmy’s on the edge.’

  He walked past her into the room with the French windows. Sheila was in an armchair, her wheelchair next to her for when she needed mobility. She had an open book in her lap. He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her forehead.

  ‘I heard,’ she said.

  He poured himself a whisky. Probably not a good idea, but what the hell was a good idea, with the SS a mile down the road? By now, the news must be spreading through the village. What would those inside the cordon think?

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Eliza.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He turned and looked at the two women in his life. They were looking back at him, as if he should have the answers. ‘Perhaps they think there’s someone in the village. A fugitive. Perhaps they intend to search for him.’ He finished the whisky and put the glass down. ‘I should tell Joe and Mary.’

  He walked through the house to the kitchen. Mary was preparing dinner. He could smell a chicken roasting in the oven and steam was rising from pans on the Aga stove.

  ‘Don’t often see you here, Mr Ashford,’ said Mary. She always insisted in being formal.

  ‘Where’s Joe?’

  ‘In the parlour.’

  ‘I need to speak to you both.’

  She wiped her hands on her apron, concerned because he was concerned, and went to the door of the parlour and called her husband. Joe came into the kitchen in his shirtsleeves and wearing slippers.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he said.

  ‘Simon Humphrey has been arrested and the SS have surrounded Ollerton.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Mary, and Joe went to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen,’ said Willie. ‘The SS might spread the net. I thought, perhaps, you might want to take the shooting brake and go to Nottingham.’

  They had mutual friends in Nottingham. An old army friend with whom Willie had served and who had arranged for Mary and Joe to take up their positions as housekeeper and gardener 20 years before, when the couple had first gone underground. They were submarines, Jews who had melted into a rural background to live out their lives quietly, as long as no one looked too closely at their history and forged papers.

  ‘What’s going to happen in the village?’ said Joe.

  ‘They could make a search.’

  ‘It could be something else.’

  Willie nodded. ‘If they have something on Simon – even if they only say they have – they could take reprisals. Perhaps shoot people.’

  Joe squeezed his wife tighter round the shoulders.

  ‘It would seem like running away,’ he said.

  ‘It might be se
nsible.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ll wait awhile, then I’m going back to the village across the fields. See how tight the net is.’

  ‘That’s very sensible.’

  He said it sarcastically.

  ‘These soldiers aren’t country folk,’ said Willie. ‘They’re street fighters, not poachers.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Willie nodded. He didn’t try to talk him out of it. Mary kissed her husband on the cheek and moved back to the cooker.

  ‘You’ll be wanting your dinner, then,’ she said.

  SS-General Terence Sinclair travelled from London to join his forces and arrived by staff car at battalion headquarters, which had been established in a large tent in a field next to Top Lane, a mile outside Ollerton. He had witnessed one Sanction in South West France 20 years before when he had been seconded to a Waffen-SS battalion. The operation had been efficient and ruthless and the power had filled him with awe. He had participated in another Sanction in Russia three years later. He had personally shot, with a Luger pistol, three men and a woman who had been trying to escape and he had walked between the bodies after a mass execution, supplying the final, killing shot to those clinging to life. The memory still gave him an erection.

  The interior of the tent was well lit and busy with activity. Wireless operators sat before equipment that was stacked on trestle tables and a large-scale ordnance survey map was pinned to an easel. SS-Lieutenant Colonel Alex Dunn, Officer Commanding the 1st Battalion of the Caledonian Brigade, welcomed him with a handshake.

  ‘Let me introduce you, sir. Major Alistair, my second in command, and my company commanders, Major O’Dare, Major McIntyre, and Captain Morris and Captain Blain.’

  Sinclair shook hands. Brigade Headquarters tended to be overstaffed with officers of ineffectual ability and he was impressed with the demeanour of the men at battalion level, the sharp end of his fighting machine. These were the best; totally committed to National Socialism and the cause of fascism. He stood in front of the map and nodded admiringly at the neat pins that denoted checkpoints and troop locations and the clean arrowed lines that showed the routes to be taken in the morning.