They listened but could hear nothing. Willie sneaked a look through the window into the kitchen. ‘Empty,’ he mouthed to Kevin. He tried the door and found it was unlocked. They went inside and silently closed the door behind them and they seemed to fill the small room that was already cluttered with cooker, sink, kitchen dresser, table and three chairs. The interior door was partly open and now they could hear voices. Willie’s hand that held the knife was slippy with sweat. He put the knife in his other hand, wiped his palm, and got a better grip.
‘So who’s going to do it?’
‘We’ve all done it.’ The man who spoke laughed.
'We’re going to have get back,’ said the first voice. ‘So who’s going to do it?’
‘I’ll fucking do it. No problem. Bang, you’re deed.’
‘Bang, bang, thank you ma’m.’
‘Aye. Soon as Angus finishes. Maybe we’ll get a medal. We’ll tell Fraser we were shooting desperadoes.’
‘Fraser’s dead.’
‘Well, whoever’s in charge. They’re all the same. All officers are twats. They want to believe. So we’ll give them a story.’
‘You know, you’re quite clever for a fat bastard from Govan.’
‘I’m big boned, bonny lad. And I need a piss.’
Furniture creaked and a bottle clinked.
The other man belched and said, ‘I could do with a shit but that nettie’s too cold.’
‘Don’t stand on fucking ceremony.’ They heard the sound of someone urinating on the fire. ‘Use the kitchen.’
The other man chuckled.
‘That’s why you’re a sergeant. You use your brains.’
‘Among other things.’
They heard the second man walking towards the kitchen and Willie moved behind the door and wondered where the hell Kevin would hide but Kevin didn’t hide. He stepped back into a corner, out of line of sight of the doorway, and as the trooper came in, already unbuckling the belt round his tunic, Kevin hit him over the head with a cast iron frying pan. The blow made a noise like a gong and the man, small, clean-shaven and with ginger hair, fell in a heap.
‘Now what the fuck have you done, you dozy twat,’ said the sergeant, coming to the door whilst still buttoning his fly. His eyes widened at the sight of Kevin with the frying pan and then widened further as Willie stepped out behind him, put a hand over his mouth, held his head steady and stuck the knife in his throat.
The sergeant was a big man but Willie’s height and the surprise made the kill quick. Blood spurted and Kevin stepped back out of the way. Willie twisted the knife before removing it and dropped the body.
‘Angus,’ he said, glancing at the ceiling, wanting to move on quickly before he had time to think about what he had done.
‘One minute,’ Kevin said. ‘That one’s alive.’
Kevin rolled the smaller and unconscious man onto his back, took a large kitchen knife from the dresser, and knelt on one knee by his side and prodded his tunic with the point.
‘It’s too bloody thick.’
They heard footsteps upstairs and Willie stepped into the doorway of the living room. When he looked back, he saw that Kevin had pushed the knife into the man’s throat.
Angus began to descend the stairs. The room was rich in family memories and heirlooms from Blackpool and the Lake District. A motor mechanic magazine lay on top of a bookcase and a stack of Women’s Realm magazines was on a shelf. Unfinished knitting waited to be completed. Three army great coats lay in a pile in a corner.
The front door opened directly into the living room and faced another door that led to the enclosed staircase and Willie waited, his back against the panelling. The staircase door opened, a man stepped onto ground level and missed his footing and cursed. The stumble took him beyond Willie’s reach and now he turned, eyes bleary with alcohol, and saw the tall man with the thick white hair and gaunt, strained face. The soldier’s tunic was open and he carried his holster and belt in his left hand. His mouth began to phrase a question when Willie stepped forward and pushed the knife into his stomach and upwards, aiming beneath the rib cage and for the heart.
‘Shit,’ said Angus, and fell to the floor.
The man’s legs and arms twitched as he died and Willie withdrew the blade. Kevin was standing behind him, breathing heavily. His jacket and shirt stained with the blood of the trooper he had killed.
‘Collect their weapons,’ Willie said.
He got to his feet and felt the blood on his hand. He reached for an embroidered white cotton antimacassar that lay over the back of a chair but stopped. It had probably been made by Mrs Jenkins, as a small touch of gentility and to shield the upholstery from her husband’s Brylcreemed head. He couldn’t use it; there had been enough desecration in this little house. He knelt again and wiped the blade on the dead man’s tunic, then he went up the stairs. This part, he told himself, was worse than the killing.
‘Susan,’ he said. ‘It’s William Ashford.’
The door at the top of the stairs was open and led into the back bedroom. Susan was naked and sitting in the corner on the floor, her knees drawn up. Her hands were balled into fists and were pressed against her mouth. Willie made sure no one else was in the room and put the knife back in its sheath. He knelt beside her and she stared at him with big brown eyes. She had cried and her make-up had run but the tears seemed to have been replaced by shock. A bruise marked one side of her face.
‘My poor love,’ he said, and put his arms around her and she rested against his chest. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, and stroked her hair. ‘So very, very sorry.’
She shuddered and released breath she seemed to have been holding since the terror began. She cried again and he squeezed her shoulder gently and said, ‘We have to go.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Can you stand?’ She looked at him, as if only half understanding, and he stood up and helped her to her feet. There were bruises all over her body and he wanted to go back downstairs and stab the three rapists again.
He held her briefly, for reassurance, and said, ‘Come on, my love. Let’s find some clothes.’
The clothes she had been wearing were in a corner where they had been thrown. A blouse that had been torn, a skirt ripped. God, where did he start? He opened a wardrobe and found a blue cotton dress with a wide skirt. She stood compliantly whilst he put it over her head and zipped it up the back. He chose a pair of white pumps for mobility. If they were to get out alive, she might have to run. She sat on the edge of the bed whilst he put them on her feet and tied the laces.
‘Mr Ashford?’
Kevin called quietly from downstairs.
‘One minute.’
‘Is Susan all right?’
‘She’s okay.’ He stared into her eyes that were still vacant and kissed her forehead. ‘Come on, Susan. We’re leaving.’
He took her hand and led her downstairs. Walking was painful for her. Kevin waited, ashen-faced and embarrassed. His face tightened when he saw the bruise below her eye. He had rolled the body in the living room to one side so that Angus looked asleep on the floor, and had covered the two in the kitchen with greatcoats. He had strapped one holster and ammunition belt around his waist and hung another over a shoulder. He handed the third to Willie who, likewise, fastened it around his waist beneath his jacket and put his service revolver in his pocket. Kevin had one assault rifle strapped to his back and carried a second. He handed Willie a submachinegun and held up two hand grenades. Willie took one.
Susan looked blankly round the room, as if she was a stranger in her own home. Willie found her coat on a hook by the front door and helped her into it and then they led her through the kitchen and past the dead troopers. Only when they were outside did she react, when she saw the bodies of her parents. She let out a howl of anguish and would have sunk to her knees if Willie and Kevin hadn’t taken her arms and rushed her down the garden and over the fence.
They gained the cover of an outhouse and she cried against Willie’s shoulder.<
br />
‘Where were you?’ she asked.
He had no answer but kissed her head and said, ‘We have to go.’
They continued round the fringe of the village, Susan limping and in pain, but seemingly gaining strength as they moved further away from the house. Kevin kept looking at her with an expression of such guilt and anger that Willie feared he might open fire at the first SS they encountered. He didn’t, but waved them into cover when they saw small groups of troopers making their way in the opposite direction, running through gardens towards the church.
At the back of the Colonel’s house they heard a sergeant shouting abuse at troopers inside who preferred drinking to joining their comrades outside and Willie thanked God for Christmas and Hogmanay, which were proving to be such effective secret weapons. The sergeant was insistent. He was rounding them up for the inevitable assault.
Willie’s target was Top Lane where, local intelligence suggested, the headquarters of the invasion force was located. They made it, without being spotted, to the white walled cottage of Les Taylor, an agricultural worker. His home was the first, and the last, dwelling of the village. Les and his wife Moira were in the church and, while both front and back doors were open and the place had been ransacked, no one was inside. They looked across the road to the field that contained a double row of parked military lorries, a yellow bulldozer, a medical centre and command and communication tents.
Now they were here, Willie was no longer so confident; not that he had been particularly confident, in the first place. He had stressed to the defenders of the church that the SS’s fearsome reputation was not for fighting unless the odds were stacked in their favour. Give them a bloody nose and they would not be so keen on battle. That’s what he had told them and he hoped it was true. The villagers had done exceptionally well, so far, but needed to do better. The SS troopers would be pissed off and their officers would be spitting blood at taking casualties. But if the church could fight off the next assault, they might have a chance. Time would be in their favour and if word got out, questions might be asked and public opinion aroused. All right, so it was a forlorn hope but it was the only one they had.
He evaluated the situation. A battalion HQ would perhaps have 50 officers and men but the casualties might have led to some redeployment, and the men across the road would be stretcher-bearers, medics, wireless operators, transport drivers and clerks looking after the quartermaster’s stores. So, say there were only 30 of them. Not bad odds for him and Kevin. Shame they would all have guns. It was time for Susan to leave.
‘You know where we are, Susan?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘You can get away. Try to get to Knutsford. You know people there?’
‘I’m not going.’
‘You must go.’ He put both hands on her shoulders. ‘This is your only chance.’
‘I’m not going, Mr Ashford. I’m staying with you and Kevin.’
‘This is …’
‘I know I might be killed. I don’t care. I’m staying. No one else would understand.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ve earned the right to stay. Haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you have.’ He remembered her sweet nature and her shyness. Sometimes he had given her a lift home. He remembered her mother and father, genuine people. Remembered? The life they had had, the people they had been, had become past tense in a few hours. He took the service revolver from his pocket and offered it to her. ‘Do you want this?’
‘Yes.’
She took it and it looked too big for her hand.
‘This is the safety. Like this.’ He worked it off and on. ‘Point it and pull the trigger.’ She stared at it. ‘Will you be able to do that?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll do it.’
Kevin waited, a big, patient lad whom Willie had, in the past, taken for granted. Now he felt the closeness of camaraderie and a new respect. He knew he could rely on the village postman totally. He outlined what they should attempt to do.
Joe made his way through the woods. He stopped frequently to listen but there was little activity. He reached the tree line slightly above the guard post he and Willie had discovered the night before and took stock of the situation. Soldiers were moving along behind the churchyard wall, crouching low so as not to be seen. A lot of soldiers. There was no way he could get back into the church.
The assault would happen soon and he wondered how the defenders would cope. He noticed a head peep from above the parapet of the church roof and then duck down again. A narrow gully ran around the lip of the church roof on three sides. The parapet provided only about two feet of cover from bullets but precious little from grenades. Whoever was up there would be particularly vulnerable once the troopers got within throwing range.
He felt both helpless and relieved and a small part of him said it was now acceptable for him to retrace his path and go to find his wife. A Scottish voice cursed and he remembered how close he was to the guard detail. He realised other noises had been going on in the background, as if they were building something. He squirmed forward a little further and saw the reason for the activity. They were building a machinegun nest.
The men he had heard toiling up the hill on his outward journey must have been carrying it up here. It had been positioned behind an old log and undergrowth had been stacked against the front. From here, the gunner could take a terrible toll.
‘Right. McKay, you’re in charge.’
‘Yes, Corp.’
‘The rest of ye, down the hill.’
Men began to leave and McKay said, ‘Save us a woman, Smithy.’
‘You can have mine when I’ve finished.’
‘Ne’r mind. I’ll make do wi’ a wank.’
Joe listened to the sound of the men as they went down the hill. He crawled back into the trees and approached the remaining troopers from the flank. The fire was still burning and a two-man bivouac tent was alongside it. He lay silently on the ground, feeling the cold invade his bones. The tent, he decided, was empty. Three troopers had been left behind with the machinegun.
‘Have we time for a brew?’ a tall, lanky trooper said.
‘There’s always time for a brew,’ said McKay.
The lanky trooper picked up the kettle and placed it on stones in the glow of the fire. He threw out the dregs from tin mugs and spooned in tea leaves. Joe watched, a revolver in each hand. He had been on the brink of retreating to his wife when God had provided a more pressing option, but if he made his move too soon, the shots would bring reinforcements. He had to time this right so that the sound of the revolver was lost in the noise of battle and, if it didn’t happen soon, he would be too frozen to move.
He crawled back with extreme caution until he could get to his feet. He crouched and pressed his elbows into his sides and his arms against his chest to get warm and looked at the guns in his hands. He had never killed before but he had to now. He was surprised that his mind was as cold as his body. Afterwards, he might have doubts or regrets, but right now he had to kill three men quickly and in cold blood for the sake of his friends and neighbours in the church; for the sake of himself.
Joe smiled as he thought of his wife. They had had a strange marriage, a strange life. But maybe not so bad, when put in the balance of history. His ancestors had probably had stranger lives, equally full of subterfuge and danger. And at least he and Mary had had the last 20 years. He was crying silently and only realised when the trickle of tears turned cold on his cheeks. Stupid. This was no time to cry. He moved back through the undergrowth to wait.
The Colonel looked across the village green to his home. How had everything changed so much in such a short time? Under normal circumstances, he would be taking Paddy for a walk. Nothing too strenuous, as neither of them was up to anything strenuous these days, and then he would go home for a coffee and listen to the radio or perhaps read a chapter of his library book, another Western. He had read enough Westerns, over the years, to repopulate the Great Plains with several tribes of Indians
and thousands of cowboys and dead-eyed marshals. Then, a few minutes before noon, he and Paddy would walk to the Bull for a few civilised pints and conversation with Willie Ashford and other locals.
Now his home was under occupation – he could see shapes moving beyond the windows – and the Bull was still blazing and the fire had spread to the rest of the cottages in the row. Rose Cottage also continued to burn, the flames leisurely and without urgency. With no one trying to put out the fire, it seemed to be taking its time.
Bodies still lay about the green and amidst the debris blown from the front of the wreck of what had been Ogilvy’s shop. Medics and stretcher-bearers had been slow to arrive and even slower to check the fallen for signs of life. They probably preferred to tend the wounded in the side streets who were not under the direct gaze of the defenders of the church.
He watched and listened from the gallery. The sound of the fires provided a background noise that reminded him of Bonfire Night when the village turned out as a community to celebrate tradition and eat baked potatoes and pie and peas. What he would give for a bowl of pie and peas now and a pint of beer served by genial George Wilson. Poor old George. How could all this have happened in such a short time?
From below, he could hear boots on the pavement, as troopers took up positions behind the church wall, and the commands of sergeants and corporals guiding their men into place. His own patchwork quilt of an army was already in place, part frightened and part determined.
Richard Marshall had control of the opposite gallery, his wife Alison was with him, carrying an assault rifle. Dr Frank Beevers and district nurse Bella Brown were behind the medical redoubt in the Lady Chapel, waiting for the wounded, with Maureen Wilson and his own wife Marjorie, two ladies in mourning, in attendance with bandages and torn sheets and water ready to boil on a portable stove.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 23