Dunn pointed with a map stick.
‘All roads are sealed. They can get in but they can’t get out. Not that they’re trying. B Company has the Upper Bedford Road, C Company the road to Morton Marsh and A Company is in position here. D Company is holding the perimeter in between’ - the stick continued to move - ‘and have Platoons on high ground locations and in open countryside. A, B and C Companies will move into the village at 0900 hours along these roads in a rolling manoeuvre. D Company will retain Sections in exposed positions and also move to cover the roads behind the advancing line.
‘All houses to be cleared, all inhabitants directed to the village green. It’s an easy containment area. Women and children will go to the church hall; all males over the age of 14 will be marched to the school. We will deal with them in the schoolyard in batches of 20 at a time. The playing field is suitable for a burial pit and we have a heavy digger waiting on the Morton Marsh road. The women and children will be dealt with in the church hall. It’s a wood framed building and easy to burn. Finally, we’ll demolish the houses with grenades and explosives.’
‘Excellent, Alex. As I knew it would be. What if anyone objects to being moved?’
‘They’ll be shot, sir. Shoot one and nobody else will object. It’s a question of speed, authority and obedience. Don’t give them time to work out what’s happening. We also have a flamethrower unit in case anyone barricades themselves in. Fire can be very persuasive.’
‘Well done, Alex. I told Sir Oswald he could rely on us. We’ll make this textbook. I shall be here in the morning to go in with you. Oh, and by the way, I shall have a cameraman with me.’
‘A cameraman, sir?’
‘For the Fuhrer. His eyes only. There will be medals to be had from this, gentlemen. Believe me.’ He looked over the plans again, nodding with approval. ‘Have you done a Sanction before, Alex?’
‘I was involved in the Coventry clearances in ’44 and I was an observer in Chetnya in ’54.’
Sinclair nodded and glanced at the other officers.
‘And you, gentlemen?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I have had the privilege twice. There’s nothing quite like it. It’s a cleansing. You’ll have to keep tight discipline. The men may become over-enthusiastic. Tight discipline, gentlemen.’ He slapped his swagger stick against his thigh. ‘That’s the key. And take no nonsense. Once this starts, you have carte blanche, gentlemen.’ He turned away from the map and glanced around the tent with approval. ‘I’ll get out of your hair, now. I’m staying at The George in Knutsford. Join me for supper, if you can, Alex. You seem to have everything under control here.’ He clicked his heels and the officers came to attention and raised their arms in the Nazi salute. He returned the gesture and walked from the tent.
‘Tight discipline,’ said Major Alistair. ‘We’ll need that, all right. The bastards have been complaining since we got here. This is not their idea of how to celebrate the New Year.’
‘But discipline is what we must have, Sandy,’ said Dunn. ‘This is not the Liebstandarte-SS. It’s a battalion of hairy-arsed Jocks who are pissed off at missing Hogmanay and it will all be captured on film.’ He shook his head. ‘Tell all Platoon and Section commanders to keep a grip.’
Willie Ashford had felt slightly ridiculous about rubbing shoe polish on his face but, once in the night, he felt the benefit. A woolly hat hid his white hair and he and Joe, who had taken similar precautions, were shadows in the darkness as they went through the fields and woods towards Ollerton.
They both knew the back trails well and moved almost silently, pausing often to listen but heard only the normal night sounds of the country. A strand of trees led to the top of a hill that climbed behind the church and looked down into the village. A group of soldiers had made camp in the trees just before the skyline with a cluster of bivouac tents. Most of them were crouched around an open fire, their faces glowing and their bodies darkly outlined. They smoked cigarettes and passed a bottle of whisky between them. Away from the warmth on the edge of the trees, two soldiers stamped their feet and kept watch.
‘…and then we’d go down the Mile and kick a few heeds. There’s always English in Edinburgh for New Year. We’d keep asking people the time until we got an English twat then we’d kick his heed in.’ The soldier had a fleshy face, small eyes and a thin moustache. He took a drink from the bottle. ‘Take him down an alley, give him a messing, take his wallet, wish him happy Hogmanay and leave him choking on his own blood.’ He laughed. ‘Then go looking for another one.’
‘Shut your crack, McKay, and pass the bottle.’
‘Fuck you.’
Another voice said, ‘You’re full of shite, McKay.’
‘I’ll shite on you, in a minute.’
‘Pass the fucking bottle.’
He passed the bottle.
‘You make out you’re such a hard man,’ said the second voice. ‘You wouldna last ten minutes in the Gorbals.’
‘I’ll take you anytime, big man.’
Someone put another log on the fire and sparks rose into the air like offerings. Willie and Joe lay in the undergrowth and watched and listened. The talk and even the arguments were desultory. The men were cold and fed up.
‘You should ask our wee lieutenant the time, McKay. He’s got an English voice.’
‘And he needs his heed kicking.’
They laughed.
‘Aye, that’s a nice thought, though.’
‘He’d have a blue fit if he saw the bottle.’
‘That’s why he’s not here,’ said McKay. ‘He knows. The wee man will stay well away tonight.’
‘And he’ll be bright as a pin in the morning after a good night’s sleep. Bastard.’
'What do you expect. He’s a Sassenach.’
Undergrowth moved and twigs broke and a dark figure emerged from the trees and took on shape as the man got closer and crouched by the fire.
‘It’s too fucking cold,’ he said.
‘Anything happening, Corp?’
‘Aye. Bastards are going in the pub and having a drink. Pass the bottle.’
The bottle was passed and he took a long swallow.
‘Any lassies going in the pub?’
‘Plenty. ‘
‘We could do with one up here. Keep us warm,’ said McKay.
‘You’ll have to make do with Smithy,’ said the corporal. ‘Go and join him. Relief in an hour.’
‘I hate fucking England.’ McKay got up and the sergeant offered him the bottle and he took another swig. ‘Make sure there’s some left.’
There was a laugh and a clink of bottles.
‘Don’t worry yourself. There’s plenty.’
Willie motioned to Joe and, as McKay picked up his gear and walked noisily towards the guard line, they backed away from where they had been hiding. They moved up the hill to where the trees ended and crawled to the skyline. Twenty yards to their right they could see the cigarettes that McKay and Smithy were smoking. Below them, lights were on in the church and stained glass shone from the dark mass of the building. The village streetlights showed empty roads and lanes and The Black Bull spilled illumination. The Christmas tree was bright in the middle of the green. Willie looked at his watch. It was 11 45. Under different circumstances, he and Eliza and Sheila would be in the pub, ready to celebrate the birth of another new year.
‘Beaten the bugger again,’ Jimmy Humphrey would say, meaning the Grim Reaper.
Not tonight, Jimmy. Tonight his old friend would be at home, staring into a whisky glass and holding himself together for the sake of his wife. He would know that a military perimeter around the village could only portend serious action; that it meant Simon was in deep trouble. The age they lived in made everyone sceptical about truth. Simon did not have to be guilty of anything; he could simply be an excuse.
Willie could see the whole village from here. Maybe someone had decided it was the right size, but he hoped not.
Chapter 22
<
br /> Chester
The tour started at Chester in an auditorium packed with mainly screaming girls. John was sure nobody could hear anything, but that didn’t seem to matter. These girls wanted to rip their clothes off. There had always been a sexual buzz about appearing on stage and strutting with a guitar, but the balance had tipped crazily. It seemed as if they could now have any girl they wanted. After the gig, they were driven to a five star country hotel in a limousine. They took no girls.
Ringo was smitten by a hairdresser from Liverpool and was remaining faithful, John was feeling broody about his long time girlfriend Cynthia and Paul and George were in no mood to split ranks. In the present situation there were times they just wanted to be together; four friends with shared experiences, who knew each other’s annoying habits and put up with them; four blokes with a siege mentality.
John had been angry and depressed since he had watched Bergfeld taken away by the Gestapo. The others had tried to suggest everything would be fine and he would turn up out of the blue at a gig on their UK tour, as loud as ever and with a new bad German joke. What could the Gestapo want with him? Maybe he had been guilty of a little smuggling, but it couldn’t be anything serious. He might have believed them except that he remembered how Bergfeld had behaved in the Savoy. Then the State Police had asked for a meeting.
It helped that they were top of both the single and album charts and being hailed as better than anything the Americans could produce. The Mersey Beat had been adopted as Euro rock.
They met two Gestapo officers in the offices of Top Ten Management in the presence of Jimmy Burns and a company lawyer. John had taken Bergfeld’s advice and got rid of his collection of magazines. He hadn’t destroyed them; he had left them on buses and the underground as a gesture of subversion. There was no documentary evidence to show Bergfeld had ever been their manager and they were polite but noncommittal when they were questioned.
The Gestapo officers were equally polite and noncommittal. They wouldn’t say why they were interested in Bergfeld but did say he had gone back to Berlin. John got the impression they were going through the motions; that they had already made up their minds that the Beatles had not known Bergfeld well. At the end of the interview, he actually asked if Bergfeld was still alive and the pause, before the officers terminated the meeting without answering the question, was eloquent.
He had telephoned Vince Slater, the hairdresser, in Manchester, and told him what had happened.
‘I don’t know why, but I thought you should know,’ John said.
‘Are you okay?’
‘What do you think? I have this feeling we’ve been used. That there’s something Peter didn’t trust us with.’
‘Maybe he was protecting you.’
‘Do you know what he was doing?’
‘Making you number one.’
‘Don’t you trust me, either?’
‘Me? I’m a crimper. My secrets are trade.’
John felt on the outside.
‘We’re playing Manchester, New Year’s Day,’ he said.
'I know.’
‘I’ll put your name on the stage door. Ask for Neil, if there’s any problem.’
He wondered if he would show up?
After the Chester concert, they were driven to a side entrance of the country hotel. A New Year’s Eve party was in full swing in the ballroom and they were led up a rear staircase to their rooms on the top floor. They all went into one room and collapsed on the beds and across the sofa and chair. Neil answered a knock at the door and a waiter came in carrying a case of Carlsberg.’
‘I think of everything,’ he said smugly.
He signed for the lagers and gave the waiter a tip but the man was reluctant to leave and whispered to Neil who said, ‘Would you mind, lads? Jimmy wants an autograph.’
‘No problem,’ said John, getting up and holding his hand out. Neil placed a ballpoint pen in it. ‘Bend over, young sir.’ The waiter looked confused. ‘Don’t worry, we’re all friends here.’ His voice became as fruity as the British Empire. ‘Damn good friends, don’t you know.’ He signed his name on the back of the waiter’s white coat. ‘Next.’
They all signed and the waiter left and Neil opened bottles of lager.
‘An early night, tonight. It’s a full day tomorrow. You’ve got a publicity shoot, lunchtime TV interview, sound check and the Juke Box thing before the gig.’
‘Juke Box Jury,’ said Ringo.
‘That’ll be a laugh,’ said John. ‘I said that’ll be a larf.’
He felt like hitting someone or making a gesture more overt than leaving magazines on buses.
‘That’ll be a larf and ‘arf,’ said George.
‘I don’t fancy it,’ said Paul. ‘I don’t want to sit there like a prat saying other people’s records are crap.’
‘Most of them are,’ said John.
‘That’s not the point. I think we should agree to go easy on them, whoever they play.’
‘We could be a hung jury,’ said John.
‘Careful,’ said George. ‘There are those who think that would not be a bad idea.’
‘It’s just that we don’t know how long we’re going to be on top,’ said Paul. ‘Humility might not be a bad idea because you can’t bank on success lasting.’
‘Humility,’ said John. ‘Now there’s a new year resolution.’ He raised his bottle and gave a toast. ‘Fuck humility.’
Chapter 23
Ollerton
The crowd in the Black Bull stayed for midnight. The evening had been subdued and the speculation had run its course and back again but those present seemed to gather strength from being together.
Ruth Ogilvy had been to sit with the Humphreys for most of the evening but had joined the others in the pub at 11. She shook her head when her brother Brian asked how they were; she didn’t wanted to talk about it. Brian was worried about Helen but none of the Roberts family had been seen all day. How could the gauleiter show his face, in the circumstances?
Sally Beevers gave Ruth a hug and smiled guiltily at Bob Harvey, as if apologising for having her man with her. Dr Beevers, Ruth noticed, was drinking only moderately and was sober. Barry Wilson came from the other side of the bar and gave her a squeeze.
‘Snooty’ll be all right. You’ll see.’
George called for hush as the time approached and turned up the volume on the radio behind the bar and they all waited. He had his arm round his wife Maureen’s shoulder; she had her arm around his waist. On the radio, Big Ben chimed: 12 slow strokes to the first day of 1964. The crowded pub remained quiet when they finished. Couples embraced, someone began to cry and was hushed to silence. Hands were shaken and people seemed to become released from a trance. They forced smiles, slapped backs and exchanged hugs and kisses and felt close. They were a community of friends and whatever the new day brought, they would face it together.
‘Last orders,’ George said, for once without having to raise his voice. ‘And these are on the house.’
PART TWO
Chapter 24
January 1, 1964. Edinburgh
The buildings of the Old Town tumbled down the Royal Mile from the Castle to Holyrood Palace. The cobbled streets were packed as Scots and Sassenachs celebrated. They thronged onto the castle esplanade to watch a firework display and were afterwards reluctant to disperse. An unplanned bonfire was constructed and lit and bottles were passed and songs were sung and the inevitable piper played.
Edinburgh Castle sat on a hill that had been fortified for 2,000 years and people had walked the Royal Mile for 700 years. This was the spiritual heart of Scotland. The castle housed the Scottish National War Memorial and St Margaret’s Chapel, built on the orders of the wife of Malcolm III in the 11th century. The esplanade was an old parade ground and the inscription above the gateway into the castle said: Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. Which, in the vernacular, meant don’t mess with the Scots.
This was the headquarters of the Scottish Division and was gar
risoned by each of the Scottish regiments in turn. Because of its significance, Sir Oswald Mosley had insisted the Scottish battalions of the 4th SS Caledonian Brigade had a permanent presence. As the two Scottish battalions were on duty south of the border, a platoon of the 1st SS English Brigade had taken their place, much to the disgust of the regular troops of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, who’s turn it was to garrison the castle. The SS platoon consisted of 50 troopers and NCOs, a lieutenant and a captain.
The police expected the over-exuberance, fights, rapes, indecent assaults and robberies in the crowded streets, just as they expected the loud declarations of undying comradeship, the endless singsongs, the dancing, the vomit and the drunken posturing. The majority of those celebrating Hogmanay were law-abiding citizens looking for a good time but a minority used the street party as cover for violence and theft. This year, the minority had helpers.
Police had erected and manned steel barriers 100 feet from the castle entrance to keep the crowds at a distance that might preclude incidents but the English SS troopers did not want to miss the spectacle or the opportunity to strut and pose like conquering heroes in a foreign land.
Two sentries from the Highlanders manned the gate but Number 3 Section of 1 Platoon, A Company, 1st Battalion of the 1st SS Brigade, consisting of 12 troopers, one corporal, one sergeant and the Platoon commander, Lieutenant Roger Corbett, were on the esplanade, between the castle wall and the steel barriers, by a parked armoured car emblazoned with distinctive lightning flashes.
Inevitably they became the target of taunting and obscene racial insults from a drunken gang of youths and men pressed against the barriers. A stone was thrown and police officers grabbed the man responsible and tried to haul him over the fencing while his friends held onto him and tried to pull him back. The officers used their sticks to beat them and the youth was dragged into custody. The crowd howled.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 17