Chief Inspector John Burns walked the empty and floodlit divide to talk to the English officer, who was a wee bit intoxicated. It seemed his men had all been drinking. Perhaps the sad mistaken English bastard thought this was bonding. He didn’t know they were taking advantage of him.
‘Sir. Would you consider moving your men within the castle walls?’ the Chief Inspector said.
‘What on earth for?’
‘With respect, sir, the presence of your men is inciting the crowd.’
‘With respect, inspector,’ Lieutenant Corbett said, looking smugly round to see if his men were listening, ‘the SS are not in the habit of retreating. We shall remain where we are. If you need any help in controlling the crowd, we will be happy to oblige.’
The Chief Inspector returned to his position, cursing the young man as a fool and assessing the belligerence beyond the barriers. In previous years, there had been violent clashes but kicks and cracked skulls were accepted as part of the celebrations. This was different. The presence of the English had changed the situation. It was time to clear the esplanade and push the mob into the Royal Mile and he called on his radio for the deployment of more police. As he did, the trouble started.
Among the crowd were Luke Gallagher and his associate Tom, who staged rock concerts at Ayr Pavilion. Two other men and a woman from the same organisation were helping to foment the anger and passing out catapults and packets of ball bearings. More stones were thrown and the police sticks swung. Chief Inspector Burns sensed the crowd wanted blood.
A single rifle shot from a building at the edge of the esplanade cracked like a late firework and an SS storm trooper was flung to the ground. A cheer welled from the mob and stones and steel balls flew in volleys. A trooper who had gone to the aid of his comrade said, ‘He’s been shot. The bastards have shot Mally.’ A second trooper doubled over, clutching a shattered elbow and a third was pole axed by a ball bearing to the temple.
‘Their fucking shooting at us,’ another trooper said, and unslung his Heckler and Koch. He fired a burst at the crowd and other troopers reached for their weapons and followed his example. Lieutenant Corbett gaped at how quickly disaster had happened.
‘No,’ he said, but the sergeant was ordering the men into a skirmish line.
Chief Inspector John Burns saw the first bodies fall and the anger turn to panic and he shouted at the crowd to get back. He turned to the troopers and held his hands up, palms outwards.
'Stop shooting,’ he said. ‘Stop the bloody shooting.’
The skirmish line opened fire and Chief Inspector Burns died, along with drunks, yobs, men, women, children and constables. The troopers reloaded and kept firing as people screamed and ran, crouching to avoid death, stumbling over the fallen, blood and panic on their faces.
The duty officer of the castle garrison, Captain Sandy Cameron, had been watching from inside the gate. He called out the guard of Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders as the first trooper fell and now he ran and grabbed Corbett.
‘Stop your men,’ he said. ‘Stop them now.’ Corbett was wide-eyed and confused. Captain Cameron stepped in front of the sergeant as he was about to mount the armoured car. The troopers continued to reload and fire. ‘Stop the men firing, sergeant. That is an order.’
‘Fuck off, sir. We’re busy.’
Cameron continued to bar the sergeant’s way, pulled his pistol from his holster and pointed it at the sergeant’s head.
‘Get your men under control now, sergeant.’
The lethal combination of whisky and killing had taken a grip of the sergeant and no heathen Scottish officer was going to stop his fun. He knocked the pistol arm out of the way and hit Cameron full in the face with his Heckler and Koch. The officer staggered and fell and a Highlander unceremoniously shot the sergeant at short range with his assault rifle. Troopers turned to return fire but the Highlanders, who filled the gateway and the walls, shot everyone who moved, leaving only Lieutenant Roger Corbett standing, frozen in shock.
Captain Cameron was helped to his feet and stared at the dead and wounded SS troopers. He lifted his gaze towards the steel barriers that were now tumbled and bent and saw the piles of bodies, heard the groans and cries, watched as people slowly got to their feet and went to help others. A few stood transfixed, like Corbett, unable to comprehend what had happened. Others gathered at the edge of the killing place and stared back at him and his men.
God, no, he thought. Don’t let them start again. Let it be over.
Someone shouted and waved. The shouts grew.
‘Up the Highlanders,’ came the cry, and others took it up. ‘Up the Highlanders,’ they shouted, and waved their fists in acclaim.
‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Brewster,’ he said to the soldier. But was he? What the hell had they started?
Chapter 25
Knutsford
Simon Humphrey was freezing. He sat huddled on the wooden slats of the cement shelf and shivered despite his clothes. He was exhausted but couldn’t sleep; ached from bruises and suffered sharp pains from his ribs every time he moved. His thoughts were jumbled and, part of the time, he sensed he was hallucinating. Did cold do that to you? Or was it fear?
Footsteps in the corridor outside brought a new wave of terror. The key turned, the door opened and Sergeant Tom Devlin stepped hesitantly inside. He carried blankets and a mug that steamed.
‘All right, lad?’ he said, in his reassuring voice. He put the mug of tea into Simon’s hands which were shaking so much he spilled some, wrapped a blanket round his shoulders and put others on the slats of wood. ‘They’ve only just gone,’ he said, as if in explanation.
Simon sipped the tea and felt close to tears because of the kindness.
‘What time is it?’ he said.
‘Two o’clock.’ He shook open another blanket and spread it over Simon’s legs. ‘Mr Ashford was in the station last night, asking about you. He said he’ll be back in the morning with a lawyer to get you out.’
Simon smiled and shook his head.
‘I don’t think so.’
They shared a silence for long seconds.
'Did those bastards hurt you?’
‘Not too much.’
‘You’re a poor liar, lad. Always was.’
Simon tried to laugh but it hurt his ribs and he winced.
‘They’re going to destroy Ollerton,’ he said.
‘They won’t do that.’
‘That’s what they said and I believe them. They think I helped kill Heydrich and they want a signed confession. If I don’t sign, they’ll destroy Ollerton. They called it a Sanction.’
‘They only do that in Russia. They don’t do them in England.’
‘They said everyone will be shot, men, women and children.’
‘Simon, lad. They won’t do it.’
‘That’s where the soldiers went; the SS. If I don’t sign at six, they’ll start destroying the village at nine. The thing is, I think they’ll destroy the village anyway, whether I sign or not.’ He looked up and stared at the sergeant over the top of the mug of tea. ‘Can you warn them, sergeant? Maybe some can get away?’
‘They’re just bluffing you, lad. That’s all. Just bluffing. Now you keep your chin up. Mr Ashford will be here in the morning, you’ll see.’ He patted Simon on the shoulder and went to the door. He looked back before closing it. ‘Good luck, lad.’
‘Thank you, sergeant. Oh, and sergeant? I haven’t done anything. And that’s the truth.’
The door closed and the key turned in the lock and he was left alone in the eternal bright light.
Willie Ashford had been unable to sleep and was drinking coffee in the drawing room. The silence of the house held a faint buzz like latent electricity or expectation. He was dressed in corduroys and a sweater and wore his walking shoes. If the need came for action, he was ready, even though he had not yet formulated what action he might take.
The door opened and Eliza sta
red at him.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said.
‘Me, too. Do you want some more?’
‘Why not.’ He handed her his mug. ‘It’s instant.’
She nodded and went to the kitchen and he wondered about the ethics of involving himself in Ollerton when he was responsible for the safety of his wife and sister-in-law. As arguments went, that was a non-starter. He had been brought up to believe you did not duck or abrogate responsibility, whether it be for Sheila and Eliza, or for his friends in the village or, come to that, for any innocent civilian threatened by a bully. Perhaps it would be better if he could persuade Eliza to take the women to Nottingham.
Eliza returned with two mugs of coffee. She wore a dressing gown over pyjamas and her hair was tousled from bed. She looked delectable.
‘I was thinking,’ he began.
'I’m not leaving.’ She sat on the couch and sipped coffee. ‘Sheila won’t go, either.’ They sat in silence. ‘Is there anyone we can contact?’
He shook his head.
‘The SS supersedes all other authority.’
‘What do you think they’ll do?’
He shrugged.
‘Search the village. Perhaps they’ll shoot some people. Make an example. A reprisal.’
‘It’s barbaric.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Does Jimmy know this?’
‘I think he may suspect. I think most people will suspect but they won’t want to believe it.’
‘Can we do anything?’
‘Like what?’
‘You can get through the cordon. You could help people get out.’
‘Who? How can you make that choice?’
'I suppose not.’
‘I think you should reconsider Nottingham. It would take a lot off my mind if I knew you and Sheila and Mary were safe.’
‘So you can do something heroic?’
‘I’m not the heroic type, old girl.’
‘Oh but you are, Willie. You are quite heroic, in your own way.’
Perhaps it was the situation but she said it in a tone that suggested more and they exchanged a long look and he wished they had been standing rather than sitting so that he could have taken her into his arms, to hold her, on just this one occasion. The ring of the front door bell broke the spell. Who the hell was spoiling his moment at four thirty in the morning?
Sergeant Devlin was on the doorstep, in cape and helmet, his breath clouding the air and his bicycle propped against the wall.
‘Tom. Come in.’ He took him into the drawing room. ‘You remember Tom Devlin, don’t you, Eliza? I told you I saw him last night.’
‘Of course.’ She got up. ‘Can I get you a hot drink, sergeant?’
‘No thank you, ma’m. I can’t stay long.’ He had taken off the helmet but still wore his cape. He looked at Willie. ‘I’ve seen Simon. He’s been beaten but he’s all right.’ He paused and exchanged glances with them both. ‘The thing is, he says the SS are going to destroy Ollerton. The Gestapo told him. He says it’s a sanction. Everyone is to be killed. I told him it was a bluff.’ He shook his head. ‘But I think he might be right.’
‘Dear God,’ said Eliza, and sat back down on the couch.
Willie took a deep breath.
‘I hadn’t wanted to believe it,’ he said. ‘But I thought that’s what they might be planning.’
Devlin said, ‘He says the SS will go in at nine. I thought you should know.’ They shared the awful silence. ‘I have to get back. It’s a long way.’
‘Have you told anyone else, Tom?’
He shook his head.
'I’m still not sure if I believe it.’
‘I think you should tell people, as many as you can. Tell them Ollerton, a village in Cheshire in the heart of England, is to be destroyed. Phone the newspapers and television and radio. Tell your friends to do the same. You don’t have to give your name or explain how you know, but if they get enough calls they might take an interest and ask awkward questions. You never know, it might make someone reconsider.’
‘I’ll do it but I think it’s too late. There isn’t enough time to stop them.’
‘People should still know.’
Willie let the sergeant out of the house and shook hands with him on the doorstep.
‘Do you know how many troops there are, Tom?’
‘A battalion. The first battalion of the Caledonian SS.’
Willie nodded. He had guessed battalion strength from the troops he had seen outside the law courts. About a thousand men.
‘What will you do, Mr Ashford?’ the sergeant asked.
‘I shall go to Ollerton, Tom. The least they deserve is a warning.’
Willie took the same trails he had followed earlier. He went through the trees below the outpost on the hill where he had eavesdropped. The troopers were cold, tired and careless and not expecting trouble or an interloper. He followed the tree line down towards the village. He slipped into the shadows of the graveyard and made his way to the vicarage and knocked on the door. The street lights around the village green shone through the trees. He was cold, nervous and did not feel like a hero. How did you tell a village it was going to die?
The light above the door came on and, for a second, he considered moving back into the shadows but there was no point. Now he was here, who was going to challenge him? He was inside the perimeter and an observer would think he was a villager. The door opened and the Rev James Beatty, fully dressed but lacking a dog collar, said, ‘Good God, Willie. What are you doing here?’
He ushered him inside and closed the door and Willie took the three gun bags from his shoulder and stood them in the hall. He placed a knapsack next to them. The vicar said, ‘What’s going on, Willie?’
‘I don’t know for sure, James, but I think we should be prepared for the worst. We need to get some people together. It’s five thirty. We haven’t got long.’
Chapter 26
Berlin
Martin Bormann had no need for a home life. His 10 children were grown up and his wife Gerda had died from cancer in 1946. He had an official apartment in the Wilhelmstrasse, round the corner from the Reich Chancellery, and a small basement flat in the Chancellery building itself, which was as sparse of personality as the man.
A new outbreak of trouble in Lithuania had kept him in his office until late and he had no wish to indulge in the sentimentality of celebrating the start of a new year. He had retired to the single bed in the Chancellery flat, which is where SS Obergruppenfuhrer Gunther Heines and men from the SS Liebstandarte Adolf Hitler Bodyguard Regiment arrested him at six o’clock in the morning.
He was taken in his pyjamas along corridors and down stairs at such a swift pace he could not think for overwhelming terror. He was pushed into a whitewashed cellar and wondered why a soldier was setting up a camera on a tripod and then he realised and looked at the beam and saw the wire noose.
Had men loyal to Heydrich instigated a coup? He knew he had only one ally and that was the Fuhrer himself, but he was in Berchtesgaden. His mind raced; he knew more secrets than anyone else in the Reich and had managed the financial affairs of the Fuhrer. He had access to billions of marks. He must surely be able to bargain or buy his way to safety.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Listen …’
‘You listen,’ said Heines, and pressed play on a tape recorder.
He recognised, with a shock, his own voice and that of Bergfeld, the man who had approached him with a proposal of assassination. But this tape recording was not as he remembered the conversation. There were crucial differences. His hopes sank. There was no way out.
A nerve in his left leg twitched, his body shook and he felt physically sick.
When the tape recording finished, his hands were tied behind his back and he was lifted onto a stool and the noose was placed around his neck. He stared into the camera, his mouth slack with fear.
‘I didn’t …’ he said, and the stool was kicked away.
Chapter 27
Knutsford
A key turned, the door of the cell opened and the two State Police officers entered. They looked freshly shaved and wore clean white shirts beneath the elegant suits. They noted the blankets and the empty mug on the floor but didn’t seem bothered.
The senior officer said, ‘Are you ready to confess?’
Simon said, ‘I have nothing to confess.’
He had decided that, faced with all the possibilities, he could only be true to his conscience.
‘We’ve made it easy,’ the detective said. His companion took a sheet of paper from a briefcase. ‘We’ve written it for you. All you have to do is sign.’ Simon didn’t trust his voice. He shook his head. The detective shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter. It’s already signed.’
His companion held out the document. Simon could see that it bore his signature.
‘Why bother asking?’ said Simon.
‘To show you we can do whatever we like. You will confess, Simon, believe me. You’ll be word perfect at your trial. The pain is your choice.’
‘What about …?’
‘Ollerton? That will go ahead. An example has to be made.’
‘Then no matter what you do, I’ll never confess at a trial.’
‘You over estimate yourself. We’ll make you do handstands. You’ll confess.’
The second detective put the document back in the briefcase and they prepared to leave.
Simon said, ‘I didn’t do anything, you know. I really didn’t.’
The senior detective looked at him as if he were simple.
‘Do you think that matters?’
Ollerton
The Rev James Beatty had opened the church and lit the boilers. His congregation included Tony and Brian Ogilvy, George and Barry Wilson from the Bull, Dr Frank Beevers and his daughter Sally and Bob Harvey, postman Kevin Andrews, the centre forward from the pub football team, George Woodrow, the landlord of the Farmer’s Arms, Colonel Jimmy Humphrey and a mixture of men, young and old, and a few wives who didn’t have children to look after.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 18