The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  ‘That’s the last thing I want to be. But someone has to ask. Someone has to confirm their intentions.’

  He was aware that among the frightened people who crowded his church, were those who still hoped for a miracle. Marshall shook his hand and wished him luck and said, ‘If shooting starts, run like hell,’ but the vicar hardly heard him. He stepped outside and almost immediately wished he had worn a topcoat. The morning was cold and he wore only a suit.

  Troopers were at the top end of the village green. A few watched him but most were too busy smashing their way into empty houses. He was shivering with the cold and was halfway across the green. Shots and screams silenced by more shots came from a distance away. Oh God, help me now. He could see two officers standing in the back of the armoured car that had the dreaded forked lightning emblem upon its side. He would be no martyr. He would ask what they wanted from his flock and they would tell him and he would return to the church.

  Through the windows of the Black Bull he could see troopers drinking. A fresh-faced lieutenant waited on the steps outside, like a child waiting for the grown-ups to return. A man was thrown out of the end cottage near the armoured car. It was old Josh Albright. He suffered from arthritis and had refused to leave the warmth of his home. He was on his hands and knees and seemed dazed and helpless. A trooper clubbed him with the butt of his gun and shouted at him and the vicar began to run.

  ‘No,’ he shouted. The trooper raised the gun and shot Josh. ‘Dear God, what have you done?’

  He brushed past the soldier and dropped to his knees alongside the body. Josh had been shot in the head and his blood bubbled into the grass. He now knew his own fate and he closed his eyes and pressed his hands together and prayed for Josh and himself. He prayed that there was a merciful God who would allow him to be reunited with his wife. This, after all, was why people believed, wasn’t it? Perhaps belief was all he needed to make the passing easier.

  O’Dare watched the cleric pray and scanned the rest of the houses that fronted the village green. He saw deserted cars and troopers kicking down doors. At least the shooting had pleased General Sinclair and the cameraman had filmed the incident.

  Across the green, troopers had been unable to get into Rose Cottage. The door was locked and had been barricaded. O’Dare could hear shattering glass and breakages and the angry mutterings of his men at finding no-one to bully and push around. He knew they had been drinking the night before and suspected their hangovers were making them short tempered. A trooper smashed a window in Rose Cottage and threw a grenade inside. It exploded and curtains billowed and someone screamed.

  The vicar was back on his feet and staring with disbelief at what was happening. He turned to the armoured car and shouted, ‘There are two elderly women in that house. They are terrified.’

  A trooper with a flamethrower tank on his back directed his nozzle and sent a three-second burst of fire into the house. The vicar turned and watched and listened as the screams intensified and stopped being human. The troopers outside laughed and one warmed his hands.

  ‘Anyone got any spuds?’ he shouted. ‘I missed my breakfast.’

  ‘There’ll be some in the shop. I’ll get some.’

  The vicar turned to the armoured car again. He stood in front of it and shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Barbarians,’ he said.

  Sinclair unholstered his pistol, leaned forward and shot the Rev James Beatty. Derry watched the cleric’s reaction and saw no fear. The man closed his eyes and waited. The first bullet did not put him down and the General kept firing until the vicar fell.

  A middle-aged man and woman came from a lane on the other side of Colonel Humphrey’s house. The man carried a suitcase and the woman a shopping bag. Two troopers were hurrying them along.

  Sinclair brandished his pistol.

  ‘Where the hell are the rest of them?’ he said.

  The woman stumbled and fell onto the grass and the man stopped to help her. A trooper struck him in the back with the butt of his rifle and he yelled with pain and fell face down.

  ‘He’s got a bad back,’ the woman said, now trying to help her husband to his feet.

  The trooper levelled the rifle and shot him.

  ‘He has now,’ he said.

  The woman screamed and the soldier’s companions laughed at his joke. Smoke from Rose Cottage was billowing across the green and O’Dare was aware that a large group of his men had gone into the Black Bull pub and had not yet re-emerged. The door of the shop on the other side of the green was kicked in and more men went inside and stayed. They had no doubt found the alcohol.

  He, too, was beginning to wonder where everyone was. They had one woman as a prisoner and he was rapidly losing his men. His lieutenants were young and his NCOs held their positions because they were hard enough to maintain order rather than because they were good soldiers. It only now occurred to him that most of these homes would contain alcohol left over from Christmas and the New Year and his men were undoubtedly indulging. The woman continued to scream. She was on her knees and rocked back and forth with her hands held out as if receiving a blessing.

  ‘Shut that woman up,’ he barked, and a lieutenant fired a burst from a Heckler and Koch machine pistol into her. O’Dare hadn’t meant death but, what the hell, it was already getting out of hand. He thumbed the radio and reported to Lt Colonel General Dunn in the HQ tent.

  ‘Sweep by A Company complete and we’re in position, sir. But there are no captives. Some have been shot in their homes and one dwelling has been flamed. It looks like they’re all in the church.’

  ‘I’m getting the same story from the other units. It makes no difference, Derry. If they refuse to leave the church, use grenades and then torch the place.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said O’Dare, recoiling into the cover of the armoured car as the shop across the village green exploded. Glass, wood, bricks and debris filled a dust cloud in the air. The roof of the shop rose, as if someone had made it jump, and then collapsed upon itself. The debris, he noticed, contained torsos, limbs and bodies. A head rolled across the grass like a football.

  ‘Derry?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘What’s happened, man?’

  ‘There’s been … oh shit.’

  He saw the movement above him. A man on the roof. He saw his raised arm, the flaming cloth that hung from the bottle, saw the arm throw and felt General Sinclair pushing him in a futile attempt to get out of the car, and then they were engulfed in flames.

  ‘Derry?’ the wireless said, but he was burning and screaming and through his pain and the certain knowledge of death he heard a barrage of shotgun fire and more explosions.

  Chapter 30

  Three hundred and forty men, women and children had crowded into the church. Some people had gone away for the holiday season and the remainder had chosen to remain in their homes. Nothing would happen, they said. Not in England. That was still the recurrent hope even among those who had prepared to defend their lives. Nothing might happen. Could they take the chance of firing the first shot and provoking a bloodbath?

  Willie had 98 men for his home guard army. Between them they had 18 shotguns, four service revolvers, his own Mauser M98 Magnum bolt-action hunting rifle and five longbows that belonged to a husband and wife who were members of an archery club. Many of the men had had military training; the elderly in the Great War, others in the Russian War and the younger ones during National Service or with the army cadet units that all secondary schools and colleges were obliged to have. This didn’t make them soldiers but it did mean they knew which end of a gun to point.

  They had fortified the church as best they could and had turned their attentions to the aggressive defence of the houses round the village green. Villagers had watched the Rev Beatty stride across the grass to his death. They had watched the execution of old Josh Albright, the burning of Miss Agnes and Miss Doris, the shooting out of hand of Mr and Mrs Allardyce. There was no mistake. They all knew
they were to be killed. Brian and Tony Ogilvy started the fight back.

  The shopkeeper and his son had hidden near their property and waited until the shop was full of troopers helping themselves to the stock of beers and spirits. Tony lit the fuse of a petrol bomb and his son Brian threw a brick to break the side window. Tony lobbed the milk bottle of petrol after it. They had left the gas taps on in the kitchen and had opened the valves on two of the Calor gas cylinders of liquefied petroleum that they stocked. The explosion blew them off their feet.

  Landlord George Wilson, his son Barry and postman Kevin Andrews had hidden in the attic of the Black Bull. It had a retractable ladder that dropped through a hatch. The attic had two windows that were flush with the slates of the roof, one to the front, one to the rear. They had watched through the front window what had unfolded.

  Colonel Jimmy Humphrey, who regained a spirit that Willie suspected might be suicidal, had insisted on being part of the Black Bull team. He had hidden in an outhouse. Willie was nearby, beneath a tarpaulin that had been draped over Barry’s motorbike in the back garden.

  Willie hadn’t expected the troopers to make a proper search. Initially, they would have expected villagers to surrender but by the time they reached the Bull they had probably begun to believe all their prospective captives had gone to the church. Besides, the obvious attractions of the public house would divert their attention. The ordinary soldier was lazy and would expect no danger from a crowd of villagers.

  The troopers congregated in the bar. Three served drinks and up to 30 more sat on stools or stood around, drinking pints and extra large chasers, and eating nuts and crisps. One trooper was in the kitchen, frying bacon and sausages. Their weapons were on the bar and lying across tables. They were loud and the atmosphere was building into a party. Bugger their duties. They had decided they could watch the village green well enough from here.

  Kevin Andrews went over the roof to firebomb the officers in the armoured car. He was shocked and incensed by what he had seen. He had known Miss Agnes and Miss Doris all his life. He delivered their mail and exchanged good mornings with them every day. They were like everybody’s maiden aunts. He climbed through the rear window and took one of the two petrol bombs they had. George and Barry then opened the hatch and let down the loft ladder. They descended silently, Barry handing down the guns to his father. They had three double-barrelled shotguns between them; shotguns that had been modified. The barrels had been sawn off close to the stock.

  On the landing, Barry took two of the guns; his father carried a gun and their remaining petrol bomb. Barry’s mouth was dry and a nervous twitch seemed to be running through his body. He had never been in a proper fight in his life and he didn’t know how he would react when the time came to pull the trigger. His father looked at him questioningly and he nodded that he was ready. They started down the stairs and he could smell the food cooking. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs, to separate the public area from the living quarters and for security and privacy, but it was partly open. The soldiers were laughing and joking and were very loud. He realised that with two guns, he should be in front, but it was too late now to change positions.

  Please God, forgive me, he said. And make sure I don’t let anyone down.

  Willie emerged from beneath the tarpaulin and stretched. It had been quite possibly the most uncomfortable place to hide that he could have chosen. He carried a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun and used it to tap on the side of the outhouse. The door creaked open and the Colonel peeped out.

  ‘Okay, Jimmy?’ The Colonel nodded and Willie wondered again about his stability. ‘You hear the shots?’

  ‘I heard them. Let’s get the bastards.’

  ‘Let’s test the water, first.’

  Willie led the way. He listened at the back door and could hear the men inside. He wondered if this was such a good plan, after all. They had estimated that between six and a dozen soldiers might be drawn to the pub but it sounded like a rowdy Saturday night. Even out here, he could smell bacon frying. He opened the door that led into a short corridor past the kitchen. At the end of the corridor were the stairs; to the right was the bar. He could hear bacon sizzling. Footsteps approached and he pulled back and drew the door almost closed.

  ‘How’s the bacon, doing?’

  ‘You can take these.’

  ‘You missed your calling, Tash.’

  ‘I was a chef in Glasgow.’

  ‘Aye. Barlinnie.’

  Willie listened as the soldier went back to the bar to be greeted by a cheer. He pushed open the door again and stepped inside. The door at the bottom of the stairs swung outwards and he raised the shotgun but relaxed when he saw it was George Wilson. The explosion of Ogilvy’s stores startled them all. The chef came out of the kitchen and stopped when he saw George Wilson. Willie clubbed the man over the head and he fell in a heap. They all knew it was now or never and they stepped into the bar.

  The troopers had crowded to the windows. Willie levelled the shotgun, fired both barrels, snapped it open, flicked out the used cartridges with a fingernail and fed in two more. George fired but there were many more people than they had expected and the survivors were cursing and screaming and desperately reaching for their guns. One of them pulled the trigger of a Heckler and Koch and the bullets from the machine pistol hit George and flung him back. Barry’s broadside of four barrels at short distance swept the man and more of his comrades away and two rushed out of the front door. Willie had reloaded and fired again and was appalled at the scene of hell they had created, of mangled bodies, dying and horrendously wounded men. Gun smoke created an unreal look, as if it was a painting, and the smell of the shells was sharp. Barry had reloaded one gun and fired again and it was over. The carnage was complete.

  George had slumped into a sitting position against the wall, blood bubbled from his chest. His mouth was open and his eyes stared. His son Barry was kneeling beside him but didn’t know what to do. His hands fluttered above the wounds but didn’t touch.

  ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘Dad.’

  Willie felt for a pulse in his neck. He put a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, Barry. He’s dead.’

  Someone moved among the bodies and he reloaded and covered the room. A trooper was crawling without apparent direction. Trying to get away, to find a hole, to hide from the fear and pain.

  Only now did he notice the Colonel. Jimmy was behind the bar, holding a smoking service revolver in his right hand. He was standing between the bodies of the three men he had shot, the three men Willie hadn’t even noticed. Jimmy touched a glass to the optic on a whisky bottle, drew a measure and drank it.

  ‘The guns,’ Willie said. ‘Barry, we need the guns. Jimmy?’

  He pointed to the windows, some of them now shattered, and the Colonel went to keep watch, pushing the pistol into his belt and picking up a submachinegun. Barry, dazed by his loss, fetched sacks from a cupboard beneath the stairs and he held them open while Willie dropped machine pistols, submachine guns, assault rifles, hand grenades, pistols and ammunition belts inside.

  The sound of someone on the stairs caused Willie to turn and level his shotgun.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Kevin Andrews, his eyes wide, his breath coming in gasps.

  The Colonel fired a burst from the submachinegun through the window.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he said.

  Willie shouldered three assault rifles and joined him. Troopers lay in the grass and crouched behind the Christmas tree. They began shooting at the pub.

  ‘Time to go,’ said Willie, and they picked up the sacks and weapons and moved to the corridor that led to the backdoor.

  They paused to look down at the body of landlord George Wilson. This pub had been the hub of the social life of so many of the villagers. It was no different to pubs up and down the country. Willie glanced down the bar to the corner where he and the Colonel had sat most evenings and weekends, socialising, discussing events local
and national, arguing about sport or nothing at all. This bar had seen celebrations and wakes, the blossoming of romance, the consolidation of friendships. And for the last 20 years, George had been the host who welcomed everybody into his front room and maintained the bonhomie and kept the peace. He had spent a good part of his life here and now he had died here in bizarre and tragic circumstances.

  ‘Goodbye, dad,’ Barry said.

  ‘Jimmy?’ Willie called.

  The Colonel emptied the magazine through the window and stepped across the bodies to join them as he reloaded.

  At the back door, Barry put down the two sacks he carried and went back to the stairs. He retrieved the petrol bomb from the bottom step and flicked his lighter. He glanced down the corridor at them, and Willie guessed they all looked as equally unbalanced, slightly madly and shaking with adrenalin. Barry lit the fuse and they vacated the building, taking his sacks with them. They heard the whoosh and Barry came out of the back door to join them and pick up his loads and then they were running around the perimeter of the cricket ground.

  He supposed they should count this a victory, Willie told himself, even though it didn’t feel like one. The opposition hadn’t been expecting it, they were lazy, bad soldiers and many had been half drunk and they had had the element of surprise.

  His raiding party had been aware of the risk of casualties but talking about them was one thing, suffering them another. If he was coldly rational, then this had been a success. They had lost one dead landlord, killed or wounded more than 20 of the enemy and escaped with five sacks full of weapons and the assault rifles they carried on their backs. But it didn’t feel like a success and he felt out of joint as he ran, every step jarring his body as if his rhythm was wrong.

  Barry stumbled and fell and Willie paused to help him. He was holding his thigh and blood was pumping from between his fingers. He had been shot and more gunfire came from a garden across the back of the field towards the Farmer’s Arms. Willie knelt and returned fire with one of the rifles he carried. The Colonel and Kevin Andrews had reached the cover of a lane that led to the main road. They stopped and Kevin dropped what he carried and ran back.