Willie and the vicar had knocked on doors and asked people to spread the word and they were still arriving. The car that had been on duty outside the Colonel’s house had gone and people continued to make their way through the silent village, frightened of what the day might bring but gathering courage from being together. The pews were filling and Willie guessed there were now close to 100 present and time was getting on.
The Colonel sat alone, a devastated figure, Paddy the Labrador faithfully by his side. Willie had already told him what he knew and what he suspected and the Colonel blamed himself for bringing tragedy to the village.
‘We’d better start,’ the vicar said and Willie nodded. The vicar stood on the step of the altar and faced the pews. A nativity scene was to his left in the Lady Chapel. Hope was being born in a stable. The people fell quiet. ‘You all know Willie Ashford,’ he told them. ‘He came through the cordon to tell us what he knows about the SS. What they intend.’ He paused, as if he was going to say more, but decided against it and motioned to Willie to join him.
Willie looked at the faces watching him, drawn and pale with tiredness and worry. There was not much hope there. They all knew Simon Humphrey had been arrested and the allegations that had been made against him. Most of them already feared something bad was going to happen.
‘During the night, I had a visit from a friend. Someone in authority, someone I trust. He said that at nine o’clock the SS are going to move into the village and destroy it.’ There were gasps. ‘He said everyone – men, women and children – will be shot.’
A woman gasped ‘Oh my god’ and there were groans, a curse, an invocation.
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ someone said.
‘Why would they? They’ve already got Simon Humphrey.’
Brian Ogilvy said, ‘Simon has done nothing wrong.’
‘They obviously think he has. They obviously think he killed Heydrich.’
‘Why should we be punished for something Simon Humphrey did?’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Brian. ‘Simon hasn’t done anything.’
Fear was feeding argument. People wanted someone to blame. Willie was about to shout them down but the vicar beat him to it. He stepped higher onto the altar and held up his hands for quiet and, when it did not immediately happen, shouted over their voices.
‘Listen to yourselves,’ he said. ‘Just listen. This is God’s house and the house rules are love and charity. Simon isn’t to blame. He is a scapegoat. Think it through. Mosley needs to show Hitler he is exacting retribution. If he doesn’t, Hitler will send his own storm troopers into Britain or bomb Manchester into oblivion. Someone, somewhere has pulled Simon’s name out of a hat and they have decided to demonise him. You all know Simon. You know he isn’t guilty. For God’s sake he was here, in the village, the night Heydrich was killed.’ Everyone listened. ‘Giving Hitler an assassin isn’t enough. You know how they operate. They have to provide a lesson. They’ve done it all over Russia and Europe. They probably picked Simon because he came from Ollerton. They probably picked Ollerton because it’s the right size. So no one’s to blame except Mosley and Hitler. And us, for letting them do what they have been doing, for so long.’
The silence stretched until George Wilson said, ‘Your information, Willie? You reckon it’s right?’
‘Yes, I do, George. At the very least, I thought they might shoot people. Take a dozen at random and shoot them. But they have a lot of soldiers out there.’
‘There’s a bulldozer at top Lane and a digger up past the school,’ someone said.
Richard Marshall, a lawyer who commuted to Warrington and lived in one of the large new houses, said, ‘What are you proposing? That we try to escape?’
He was sitting in a pew with his son and vividly attractive wife, Alison.
‘A few could get out across country whilst it’s still dark, but we can’t all escape,’ said Willie. ‘Besides, they’ll have lists. They’ll track the escapers down.’
‘You can escape,’ said Marshall.
‘Perhaps I will. That depends on what you all decide to do.’
‘And what if you’re wrong,’ said Marshall. ‘What if all they want to do is search the village?’
‘Then all you’ll suffer is inconvenience,’ said Willie.
‘It’s not knowing,’ said a voice.
‘I mean, even if they shot a dozen people,’ said someone else. ‘I mean, it would be terrible, but everybody else would be all right. It wouldn’t be the whole village.’
Marshall, a large and imposing man with a lawyer’s confidence, said, ‘Are you suggesting we fight?’
People fell quiet at the possibility. A moment’s silence followed by groans, grumbles, murmurings of defiance and pleas for caution.
‘If the SS were coming to kill me and my family, I would fight,’ said Willie. ‘I remember the war and I remember how people obeyed the authorities. All across Europe, Jews went peacefully to camps to be killed. No one wanted to believe it could happen but it did. The Nazis have levelled many towns, over the years. If you have forgotten, it’s called a Heydrich Sanction, because Heydrich himself developed the technique. Yes, I’d fight.’
‘What with?’ said Marshall.
‘Shotguns, pitchforks, petrol bombs, half bricks. My bare hands, if I had nothing else.’ He smiled at the lawyer. ‘I’m not a brave man, but when there is no other option, I’d fight. Like the Jews did in Warsaw. Like the Russians did, in every village and town and city.’
‘They still died,’ said Marshall.
‘They didn’t die easily. They took a toll and they are remembered. Besides, if the SS intend to destroy Ollerton, you will all be dead by lunchtime. If you fight and delay them, there is a chance the story of what is happening will get out and public opinion might force Mosley to change his mind.’
‘That’s a bit of a forlorn hope, isn’t it?’ said Marshall.
‘It’s the only hope there is.’
A man whose wife was clinging to him said, ‘We still don’t know if they will destroy the village. I’m not brave either, but I’d take my chances if all they were going to do was shoot a dozen of us. At least, the rest would live.’
The church door opened and closed and Joe and Eliza walked down the central aisle. His heart sank because his sister-in-law had walked into danger and almost immediately lifted because it gave him a chance to say goodbye. Love was a selfish emotion. Joe looked like a pantomime wood carrier with four shotguns in their canvas cases strapped across his back. Eliza carried a golf bag.
‘Where do you want these?’ she said.
‘Over there.’
The three gun bags he had brought were on the floor at the side of the altar. Eliza pulled two more from the golf bag and tipped out boxes of shells, then helped Joe unfasten the straps that held the four on his back. They had collected them from local farmers.
‘They’ll shoot us for sure if they know we’re stockpiling guns,’ said the man with the clinging wife.
‘Bloody hell, Bert,’ said a chap, two rows behind him. ‘Stop being so optimistic.’
The door crashed open and Ruth Ogilvy and Helen Roberts ran into the church. They were out of breath and holding hands. Brian Ogilvy stood up and moved into the aisle and Helen fell into his arms. Ruth went past the couple to join the vicar and Willie.
‘It’s going to be a massacre,’ Ruth said, in a low voice to the two men, her eyes wide, her lips trembling.
The vicar put his arm around her to calm her shaking and Willie said, ‘What do you mean, Ruth? What have you heard?’
‘Helen told us. Her mum and dad are leaving the village. An SS officer visited their house and told them to leave but Helen wouldn’t. She came to warn us.’
Willie looked at the people in the church who had sensed this might be important news. Helen was telling Brian, and those nearby were already getting the drift of the story and passing it on. He went to Helen and Brian and led them to the side.
‘
What’s happening, Helen?’ he said.
She told him in a rush of words.
‘An officer came to our house and said we had an hour to leave. He said the village had been sanctioned. I didn’t know what he meant but my dad did. The officer said if we didn’t leave by 7 30, we wouldn’t leave at all. Ronald was there in his uniform, all smug and strutting. He was enjoying it, sieg heiling all over the place, and my mum was crying.’ There were tearstains on her cheeks and the tears started again but she sniffed and held them in check. ‘The officer went and I asked dad what he’d meant and Ronald said the village was going to be taught a lesson. He said everyone was going to die. It’s not true, is it, Mr Ashford? It can’t be true.’
‘Where’s your family, Helen?’
‘They were loading the car when I ran away. I went to the shop to find Brian.’
‘Then there might still be a chance for you to get out,’ Willie said.
‘I’m not going without Brian.’
She clung to Brian, who looked over her head at Willie. Willie said, ‘It’s her only chance.’
‘Helen, you should go,’ he said softly, but she cried and clung to him tighter.
Willie stepped back to the altar and raised his bass baritone voice so that it filled the church.
‘Some of you may by now have already heard. An SS officer visited the house of Archie Roberts this morning. You all know Mr Roberts is a Party member and that his son is at a Nazi training college. Mr Roberts was told the village had been Sanctioned and was given until 7 30 to leave. Helen came to warn us.’
Hope drained from the church and hid in dark corners. The clinging wife dropped to her knees and began to silently pray. A car horn honked and someone at the back went to the door and looked out.
‘That will be your father,’ said Willie, and he and Brian led her down the church. Others in the congregation fell into step and followed them down the aisle. It was cold and dark outside but the streetlights around the village green were sufficient. Archie Roberts shouted from the driving seat of his Rover car.
‘Helen. You have to come now.’
‘Go on,’ said Brian. ‘You have to go.’
‘I’m not going anywhere without you. I don’t care what they do, I’m not going.’
Someone threw a stone and it bounced off the bodywork of the car.
‘I’m not leaving,’ Helen shouted, clinging to Brian.
A rear door opened and Helen’s mother began to get out but was dragged back. There was a scuffle inside the vehicle and Roberts shouted once more, pleadingly, ‘Helen.’
‘No,’ she shouted.
Another stone hit the car and a group began to move down the church path towards it and Roberts revved the engine and drove away. Before he wound up his window they heard his wife screaming, ‘My baby. My baby.’
Helen was in tears and Brian held her tight. The crowd outside remained quiet for a moment, as if the departure of Roberts and his wife and son confirmed the worst. Others at the door asked what had happened and witnesses told the story. People slowly went back into the church.
By the time Willie got back inside, the meeting had fractioned into groups discussing what they knew, some still hoping there had been a mistake. George Wilson said to him, ‘What do you think, Willie? Should we gather everybody here?’
‘That might be sensible. The walls are thick enough and they don’t have artillery. It will give the women and children shelter.’
Richard Marshall said, ‘How do we fight?’ He had studied the evidence and made up his mind.
‘I was in Russia and they never made it easy. They fought house to house, room to room. I don’t know if we can do that but we could give them a shock or two. Maybe delay them. Hold them up until someone takes notice.’ The number of men around him had grown. They were looking to him as a leader, someone with military experience. It had been a long time ago and he hadn’t enjoyed it but it looked like he would have to do it again. ‘We’d better get organised.’
Chapter 28
London
Sir Harold Philby sat in his usual leather armchair in the study at 10 Downing Street and read the report that Guy Burgess had given him. A cup of coffee steamed on a table next to his chair. Burgess was standing by the window. He pulled the net curtain to one side to look out onto the cobbles, lit by street lamps.
‘They’re gathering,’ Burgess said.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Philby.
Journalists and television and film crews were arriving and forming groups behind a barrier on the other side of the road.
All internal intelligence reports were being channelled through Burgess. He had given Philby a single sheet of paper that related to Scotland. The report said SS troopers had killed civilians when they opened fire indiscriminately in Edinburgh. Twelve of them had subsequently been shot and killed in an exchange of gunfire with men of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and the rest of the unit and their officer had been placed under arrest. Two Gestapo officers, who had been celebrating the New Year in uniform, had been strung up from lampposts; swastikas had been set on fire and effigies of Hitler and Mosley had been burned on the rekindled bonfire on the Castle Esplanade.
News of the violence had quickly reached Glasgow where two off-duty English SS troopers had been beaten to death and two more hung from lampposts. The constabulary had stood off and the remainder of the two English SS battalions, comprising almost 2,000 men, had entered the city to restore calm from Maryhill Barracks. A riot had started in St George’s Square that had led to a pitched battle down Sauchiehall Street. The Gorbals were said to be mobilising.
'I hate breakfast meetings,’ said Burgess.
‘What will you advise?’
The door opened and Sir Oswald Mosley entered. He was dressed in black, as usual, which matched his mood. Philby got to his feet.
‘Tell me it’s not true,’ Mosley said.
‘We’ve been half expecting it to happen,’ said Philby.
Burgess said, ‘The major outbreaks are confined to Glasgow and Edinburgh. It was obviously a planned uprising that hoped to gain momentum from the Scottish national spirit.’
‘The stuff they bloody drink, you mean,’ said Mosley.
‘And the time of the year and the location of the first shots. Edinburgh Castle.’
‘How many dead?’
‘So far, under 200.’
‘Whose?’
‘Mainly theirs. The SS are doing well.’
‘They can at least fight,’ said Mosley. ‘Will they contain it?’
‘They’ll contain it. They seem to enjoy it.’
‘The Scots have been agitating for too long. They deserve a hiding. Put them in their place. It hasn’t spread below the border?’
‘Of course not, sir. England is safe and Scotland will be subdued.’ He smiled. ‘After all, it’s a recurring theme in history.’
The confidence eased Mosley.
‘What about Europe, Kim?’
‘Bormann has been executed. The other arrests are progressing. When all this is over, sir, the Fuhrer will be exceptionally grateful.’
Mosley nodded, turned briefly to rest one hand on the mantelpiece and glance at the portraits. He turned back.
‘And Overton?’
‘Ollerton, sir,’ corrected Burgess. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s about to start now.’
Chapter 29
Ollerton
Open military Land Rovers mounted with machineguns led the SS troops from B and C Companies into the village from the directions of Upper Bedford and Morton Marsh. Major Derry O’Dare led A Company from Top Lane in an open armoured car. With him was SS-General Terence Sinclair and a Gestapo movie film photographer who, as well as his uniform, wore a swastika armband. Sinclair kept touching his holster and slapping his hand on the side of the vehicle. He was excited.
O’Dare was apprehensive. He knew the technique of the operation and he was not averse to killing. He would happily shoot Jews,
deviants, homosexuals and Communists. Part of his training had been on Guernsey and had included obligatory executions, but he had reservations about executing ordinary citizens. He stiffened his shoulders. All he had to do was obey orders and get the first kill under his belt. The rest would be easy.
A captain with a megaphone had driven through the village 15 minutes before ordering residents to leave their homes and gather on the village green. He had reported seeing several people heading for the church where there seemed to be activity. Well, the church would do just as well, Lt Colonel Alex Dunn had said, in his headquarters’ tent.
Their forward move was slow and, at first, orderly. He had 180 troopers, 16 NCOs, four lieutenants and a captain under his personal command. The first cottages they passed were empty. Troopers kicked in the doors and went in and some didn’t come out but O’Dare kept the rolling offensive moving; they would fall in behind when they had finished looting. He shrugged inwardly at a fact of life. Men entered a second row of cottages and there were shots and cries. Shots could also be heard from other parts of the village.
The armoured car nosed towards the apex of the green and stopped alongside Colonel Humphrey’s house. They had had the easier approach. The other two columns had more people to deal with and more houses to clear. No one had gathered on the green, which was occupied by a Christmas tree that was still lit by fairy lights. General Sinclair was getting restless.
‘Where are the buggers?’ he said.
‘Here’s one.’
From the direction of the church came a solitary figure. As he crossed the green, walking straight towards them, they could see his dog collar. O’Dare checked a list.
‘The Rev James Beatty,’ he said, for the benefit of Sinclair.
‘Come to plead for his parishioners, no doubt,’ said the General, and chuckled.
James Beatty left the church despite the entreaties of Richard Marshall. The lawyer had been placed in charge of the defences in Willie’s absence.
‘Don’t be a martyr,’ Marshall had said.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 19