The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  ‘Is that real?’ said Ringo.

  ‘Stop,’ John said to Neil. He pointed to a couple ahead who were standing by a station wagon and waving for help.

  ‘We’re late,’ said Neil.

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘The police won’t like it.’

  He glanced at John and read his expression. He stopped and John opened the door as the couple ran to them. They were teenagers and they looked cold and stressed. If they were eloping, their timing was off. John could hear the gunfire more clearly now. Smoke rose above the trees from several different fires. Perhaps what the radio said was really happening.

  ‘Can you take us to Manchester?’ the young man said.

  ‘God,’ said the girl. ‘It’s the Beatles.’

  ‘We have to get to Manchester,’ said the young man. He pointed to the smoke. ‘That’s where we’ve come from. We have to get out and tell people.’

  ‘You’re from there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  Paul joined them.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he said.

  ‘The SS closed the village last night. They’re burning and killing. They’re trying to kill the whole village. We have to tell people.’

  ‘We have pictures,’ said the girl.

  ‘Get in,’ said John. He ushered everybody back on board and slammed the door. ‘Get going, Neil. Fast as you can.’

  He pointed down the coach to a seating area. Paul had already told the other two the couple were from the village. George got a flask of coffee and plastic mugs from a cupboard.

  ‘You look like you need a hot drink,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Helen,’ said the girl, her hands shaking as she accepted the cup. ‘This is Brian.’

  Five of them crowded onto the bench seats, a table between them. John remained standing. He handed the transistor radio to George.

  ‘Can you get that radio station?’ he said.

  George switched the volume up but got static. He tried tuning but still got static until he moved far enough to get the Third Programme.

  ‘Bad reception,’ said Paul.

  'Or it’s being blocked,’ said George.

  ‘Which means not many people will know what’s going on,’ said Ringo.

  Brian said, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were on the news,’ said George. He switched off the static. ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘We went through the woods,’ Helen said. ‘A gamekeeper took us.’

  ‘Where’s he?’ said Ringo.

  Brian said, ‘He went back.’

  ‘Brave bloke,’ said the drummer.

  ‘Where’d you get the car?’ asked George.

  ‘From a friend’s house,’ said Brian. ‘Then it ran out of petrol.’

  ‘What are the pictures you’ve got,’ said John.

  Helen took three rolls of 35-millimetre film from her handbag and two spools of cine film. ‘They were taken this morning.’ She started to cry and Brian put his arm around her.

  He said, ‘They shot the vicar. They shot an elderly couple. They burned two old ladies in their cottage.’ He was white with shock and anger. ‘We barricaded the church and stole some guns but I don’t know how long they can hold out. We need to tell people. We thought if we could get to Manchester, we could tell a newspaper or somebody.’ He looked round the group, his eyes resting on John. ‘Will you help?’

  ‘Never mind the newspaper,’ said John. ‘How about television?’

  Chapter 34

  Ollerton

  Willie lay on a blanket on the floor of the medical redoubt in the Lady Chapel. He held a wad of material over his wound. Dr Frank Beevers worked on a woman who lay prone on a table. Willie’s position meant he couldn’t see who she was or the nature of her injuries. Frank was working quickly but muttering to himself all the time. Maureen Wilson was acting as his nurse.

  Kevin was on a second table and the district nurse, the formidable Bella Brown, was tearing off his trouser leg and issuing instructions to Marjorie Humphrey who obeyed her quickly and efficiently. They were applying a tourniquet.

  ‘Kevin needs you, Frank,’ Bella said.

  ‘Right.’ He waved forward Mr Brown, the bank clerk, and Mr Foyle, a travelling tailor. They wore incongruous three-piece suits, as if ready to go back to work if the conflict was called off. Except that Mr Brown’s suit was torn and bloodstained where he had been wounded. ‘Boiler room,’ Frank said.

  The woman lay on a narrow door and the men lifted it and carried her swiftly from the redoubt on a run they had obviously made several times before. Frank dipped his hands in a bowl of water, wiped them on a bloody cloth, and turned to look at Kevin’s leg. He glanced down at Willie but said nothing.

  Nurse Brown told him what she and Marjorie had done, Frank nodded and got to work. The nurse knelt by Willie’s side, pulled away the cloth, and began to cut his shirt and jumper with scissors. Marjorie brought a bowl of water and a clean cloth. His shoulder hurt but he felt he had no reason to complain. He wanted to ask if Jimmy and Eliza were all right but to enquire about only two in a company of friends was inappropriate.

  He remained silent and let the nurse clean the wound and make an assessment and listened to the loud cries of despair from elsewhere in the church and knew the battle had been terrible.

  Col Jimmy Humphrey ordered a ceasefire. Richard Marshall, on the other gallery, echoed the command. The Colonel had noted that some guns had already fallen silent and realised the rest must be very short of ammunition.

  The attack had stopped and the troopers were scurrying away to cover beyond the churchyard wall and the comfort of the houses. He remained untouched although he had strode from window to window, to shoot at the enemy with the assault rifle he carried. Tragically, his home guard force had taken many casualties.

  Dave Halford, the longbow man, had died in the act of blowing up the Land Rover. Electrician Ronnie Jones, Les Taylor from Top Lane and farmer Frank Appleyard had been shot and killed; Brenda, Frank’s wife, had been badly wounded, three others less severely, and that was only on his gallery. Three grenades had exploded in the body of the church and he still hadn’t received reports from elsewhere. He dreaded hearing them.

  Major Duncan Alistair was told he had inherited command of the 1st Battalion of the SS Caledonian Brigade on a two-way field radio.

  ‘Are you sure Colonel Dunn is dead?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the wireless operator, who was sitting in a chair in the bedroom of Colonel Jimmy Humphrey and looking at the body of his former commanding officer. ‘And Captain McGuire,’ he added.

  ‘Who is the next officer in command of A Company?’

  ‘That will be Lieutenant Grainger, if he’s still alive, sir.’

  Major Alistair considered that the circumstances of his elevation to battalion commander could have been better. No one wanted command of a beaten battalion.

  ‘Contact all company commanders and company sergeant majors. We’ll meet at battalion HQ for debriefing and reassessment at 1200 hours.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Battalion HQ has gone. It was blown up.’

  ‘Blown up? You mean, the explosion …?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That was Battalion HQ.’

  The circumstances were getting worse.

  ‘Where are you now, corporal?’

  ‘I’m at A Company HQ. The big house on the green.’

  ‘Then we’ll meet there. At noon. Tell everybody.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Major Alistair suddenly felt the weight of rank. The blame would stop with the last surviving senior officer and they had already lost far too many men in a total cock-up of an operation. He blamed Alex Dunn for not taking it seriously enough, he blamed the NCOs for not imposing the iron discipline of which they so often boasted and forcing the attack, he blamed the troopers for being idle, drunken scum.

  Wellington had had the dregs of society but he had turned them into an unbea
table fighting force. I don’t know if they frighten the enemy, but they frighten me, he had said. As far as Major Alistair was concerned, the troopers under his command terrified him for their lack of soldierly traits.

  But that would change for he was determined not to be the scapegoat. Rather, he would be the hero who was called upon to pick up the pieces of his superior’s mistakes and forge them into victory, no matter how many troopers had to die in the process.

  Chapter 35

  Knutsford

  Sheila Ashford sat in her husband’s office in Knutsford and made another telephone call.

  ‘May I speak to Sir Bertrand? That’s very good of you.’

  Mary made more instant coffee and kept a watch out of the window, half expecting the State Police to come driving up King Street. She worried about Joe and Mr Ashford; she worried about all the villagers. Some would be dead, by now, maybe many of them. She offered silent prayers and added: keep my husband safe.

  ‘Bertie? It’s Sheila Ashford. Sorry to bother you, but have you heard the news? Quite terrible. The Prime Minister has ordered a Heydrich Sanction on a village near our home. Yes. Quite sure. A Heydrich Sanction. Except that the villagers are fighting back. A battle has been raging all morning.’

  Sheila had decided that sitting at home and doing nothing was tantamount to surrender. Mary had driven her into Knutsford, where the telephones were still working, and she had been making telephone calls for two hours to anyone she knew who might wield influence, whether at a local or national level. She had started with newspapers and television and radio stations. Then she had gone on to her county contacts, several of whom held senior office in the judiciary, military, police and the county council.

  Some of those she had called had not wanted to hear her news or be part of a conspiracy to pass it on, others had been open to persuasion and a surprising number had been scandalised and responsive. When she had finished calling people she knew, she would start with the telephone book and call people she didn’t know.

  Only a small staff had been at Ashford’s, when they had arrived, because it was New Year’s Day. She had told them the situation and what she intended to do and had mentioned that two other lines were available. A girl receptionist and a young mechanic had volunteered to spread the word. They had been calling the firm’s customers and contacts with the simple message: Ollerton had been sanctioned. The SS were killing English men, women and children but the villagers were fighting back. Please call somebody and complain; call somebody and tell the story of Ollerton.

  Sheila put down the receiver and sipped coffee.

  ‘You forgot the gin,’ she said, a joke she had made several times that morning.

  ‘Do you think it’s doing any good?’ Mary asked.

  Sheila nodded. She had to believe it was. She was banking on the pyramid system of national persuasion or, at the least, national shock. Every call she made could result in another 10, maybe 20, all over the country, spreading the word; with each subsequent call prompting another 10 or 20. Eventually, somebody might call Sir Oswald Mosley himself and say: you’ve gone too far. Call it off now. The country will not allow it.

  ‘It’s doing good,’ she said. ‘We just have to hope they can hold out long enough.’

  Altrincham

  The coach made one stop, in Altrincham, where John used a telephone box to call Vince Slater in Manchester.

  ‘Have you heard what’s happening at this village in Cheshire?’

  ‘There are all sorts of rumours. About Scotland, mainly. People say there has been shooting out near Knutsford.’

  ‘The SS are trying to sanction a village called Ollerton. Have you heard of a sanction?’

  ‘I know what it is.’

  ‘Have you heard Radio Free Britain? It sounds like the barricades are going up.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be nice.’

  ‘Listen. We drove past Ollerton. There’s a bloody battle going on there. And we’ve got two people from the village on the coach. Can you get films developed? Quickly?’

  ‘I know a bloke.’

  ‘We’re in Altrincham now. Meet me at Granada TV studios. We’ll be there in 20 or 30 minutes.’

  ‘John.’

  ‘Yeh?’

  ‘You said you didn’t do barricades. Just charity gigs.’

  ‘This is a charity gig. Besides, if kids think you’re bigger than Jesus, it’s a shame not to take advantage.’

  ‘Take care, John. You know what happened to Jesus.’

  Chapel 36

  Ollerton

  Frank Beevers had repaired the hole in Willie’s shoulder, stitched it, bandaged it and put his arm in a sling.

  'How’s that?’ Frank had said.

  ‘It hurts like hell.’

  ‘Raw flesh usually does. The bullet went straight through which means you’re lucky. I’m a GP, not a surgeon.’

  He had the blood of his patients up to his elbows. Instead of dispensing antibiotics or haemorrhoid cream, he was cutting into bodies and trying to save lives and watching people die on his makeshift operating table.

  Everybody, Willie knew, had faced horror this day.

  He sat on a bench and ate soup and bread, helped by Eliza. If he didn’t move his arm too much, it didn’t hurt too much. It seemed a reasonable arrangement. They didn’t speak. There was no room for small talk; tragedy needed no comment. Women moaned in mourning.

  ‘There you are,’ said the Colonel, a rifle on a strap over his shoulder, Paddy the Labrador by his side. ‘Paddy can’t understand it. We should be on our way to the Bull.’ He nodded at the sling. ‘Serious?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘With the ammunition, we may all survive. It was a good job, Willie.’

  ‘Team effort. Susan saved my life, Kevin was a rock.’ He tried to smile but couldn’t. He felt his eyes watering. ‘Susan’s dead and Kevin’s badly wounded.’

  The Colonel nodded. He said, ‘I’ve seen bravery before, but that was from trained soldiers. Funk, too, and downright fear. But this village …’ his voice cracked and he looked away, for a second, to blink his eyes. ‘The people here didn’t want a fight. They’re ordinary folk. Milkmen, clerks, postmen. But I’ve never seen bravery like it. I know these are just words and I know that everybody is suffering in his own way but, by God, I’m proud to be here. I’m proud to be with them.’ He sniffed and looked around, as if to reassure himself no one was listening. ‘When you feel up to it, I’ll be on the gallery,’ he said.

  After he’d gone, Willie said to Eliza, ‘I guess it’s been rough?’

  ‘Forty-four dead and more than 60 injured. We’re using the crypt as a morgue.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘The women are fighting alongside the men.’

  He lost his appetite.

  ‘I wonder if people know?’ he said.

  ‘They’re bound to know,’ said Eliza. ‘But will they do anything?’

  Chapter 37

  London

  Sir Harold Philby had spent most of the morning in his Director-General’s suite on the executive fourth floor of the MI6 headquarters at Broadway Buildings. One of the perks of being C was that he also had a connecting London residence that backed onto Broadway, with an entrance in Queen Anne’s Gate. This was where he had held a brief but crucial meeting with Guy Burgess in the bathroom, with the taps running, in case of bugs. Afterwards, Burgess had gone to see Sir Anthony Blunt, the Keeper of the King’s Pictures, who was a mutual friend and associate, and a close confidante of the King since Edward’s wild Prince of Wales days.

  At noon, Philby was back at Downing Street. He waited in the study, sipped coffee and appeared relaxed as he sat in the armchair he usually favoured. The door opened and Burgess entered, carrying his overstuffed briefcase, beneath one arm. He looked around, and said, ‘I thought I was late.’

  ‘You are. So is the Prime Minister.’

  ‘How’s Europe?’

  ‘A mess. The High Command are edgy.
They’re close to invoking Valkyrie.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Someone once said it was easy to start a war but bloody difficult to stop one.’

  ‘I think many people have offered the same opinion over many centuries. It remains true. Have you heard from Anthony?’

  ‘He’s doing his duty.’

  ‘I trust he will not understate the situation?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. He’s a drama queen. What about America?’

  ‘They are showing great interest,’ said Philby. ‘I talked to Donald an hour ago. Breakfast television will be full of it.’ He sipped coffee. ‘Ollerton has been a bit of a turn up?’

  ‘Unbelievable. No one has ever defied a sanction with such success.’

  ‘Well, they are English.’

  ‘The last report I had, they were holding out in the church. The SS have taken a lot of casualties, including a high percentage of officers and NCOs.’

  ‘Leading from the front. Very brave.’

  ‘Or they were picked off. They have a sniper in the church tower.’

  ‘How very enterprising. Shame about Sinclair,’ said Philby, with a straight face. ‘Yes. Shame. Communications with Battalion HQ went dead 40 minutes ago.’

  Philby paused in thought and said, ‘How can a group of villagers inflict such casualties and hold out against a full battalion? I mean, apart from them being English?’

  ‘They’re organised.’ Burgess corrected himself. ‘They have been organised. And the SS were complacent. They took no mortars and only one heavy machine gun, a Vickers .303. They only took that for the executions.’

  ‘Anything more from Scotland?’

  ‘Scotland remains confused, which is nothing new.’

  The door opened and Sir Oswald Mosley entered, followed by Home Secretary James Dawson and Defence Secretary Hugh Taylor. The two ministers carried folders of documents and looked worried. Philby got to his feet.