The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  ‘It’s turned into a bloody mess,’ said Mosley. ‘A shambles. I’ve had telephone calls from two generals, a chief constable, three MPs and the Lord Lieutenant of Cheshire.’

  ‘About what, sir?’ said Philby.

  ‘About Ollerton. The news is out before the job’s been finished. Has it been finished?’

  Burgess said, ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It makes us look idiots. Worse, incompetent idiots. They want me to stop the sanction.’

  Philby said, ‘The Fuhrer would not like that, sir.’

  ‘I know the Fuhrer wouldn’t like it.’ He stalked the room and went to the fireplace but adopted no pose. ‘For God’s sake, I didn’t want it to happen, but if I hadn’t agreed, the Fuhrer would have done even worse. Wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, sir,’ said Philby. ‘You’ve saved lives. You’ve saved Britain’s independence. People just don’t see the big picture.’

  The affirmation of his achievements gave Mosley spirit; it stiffened his back and his resolve. He put a hand on the mantelpiece and struck a pose

  ‘You’re right, Kim. Responsibility cannot be shirked. It’s the price I have to pay.’

  ‘Heavy lies the crown, sir,’ said Philby. ‘With no slight intended on His Majesty.’

  Mosley smiled.

  ‘None taken. You know me too well, Kim.’

  Burgess said, ‘You heard, sir, that General Sinclair was a casualty?’

  ‘Yes. Damned fool. That should give the SS more reason to get the job done. I want it done and I want it done quickly, before these protests get out of hand. That damned Lord Lieutenant. I made him bloody Lord Lieutenant. Well, he won’t be for much longer. How has information got out?’

  ‘Because it’s gone on so long,’ said Burgess. ‘Because people nearby have heard the battle and seen the smoke. And probably, for the story to be out so quickly, because of bad security with the State Police. They handled the initial stages. They obviously didn’t do it very well.’

  Mosley didn’t like the State Police being criticised but he realised it was probably true. He paced the length of the room, turned and faced them, his hands behind his back, his legs apart. ‘Are we secure, Guy? Do we still have the country?’

  ‘We’re secure, sir.’

  ‘They say they’re fighting in Scotland?’

  ‘They’re always fighting in Scotland. When the dust settles, we’ll pick up the pieces.’

  ‘And the Reich?’ He now looked at Philby.

  ‘They’re considering Valkyrie. We should do the same, as a precaution.’

  ‘Is it necessary?’

  ‘Better to be safe, sir,’ said Philby. ‘We have a lot of troops overseas.’

  ‘You’re probably right.’

  He glanced down the room to the two ministers who had remained by the door. They nodded in agreement, not that they were being asked.

  Burgess said, ‘It might not be a bad idea to mobilise the TA immediately.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Mosley.

  ‘I’ll talk to General Stirling,’ said Burgess. He glanced in the direction of the Defence Secretary. ‘If you agree, minister?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Taylor.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mosley. ‘But right now, I want this Ollerton thing finishing before the meeting of the Chiefs of Staff. Speak to the Officer Commanding and tell him so. I know how these things work and if we’re not careful, these villagers will become martyrs. It’s already beginning to look like The Alamo. Thank God we control the Press. If the full details got out, heaven help us.’

  Chapter 38

  Ollerton

  Major Duncan Alistair sent a motorcyclist to the telephone exchange at Knutsford to restore communications. Until that happened, he had no contact with the outside world now that battalion headquarters had gone.

  Deaths had gone up to 166 with another 60 wounded and no longer any medical facilities because of the explosion. As well as Lt Col Alex Dunn, they had lost two more officers and two more NCOs. He had two captains and two lieutenants as company commanders, and two company sergeant majors left. They still had 700 men but they had only the ammunition they carried and no heavy armaments. The wounded were being taken to hospitals in Northwich and Knutsford.

  Alistair was considering his options: whether he could bring the action to a successful conclusion with the resources at hand or whether he should send for the 2nd Battalion, mortars and a field gun. The first choice held possible glory, the second guaranteed a result. He had until the telephone link was restored to make his decision.

  He sipped tea and tried to appear nonchalant but his training had not prepared him for this. He was an officer cadet from aristocracy with a soft Edinburgh accent, who had transferred from the regular army to the SS for the uniform, prospects of advancement and to avoid having to serve in India or Africa. Of course, he supported the ideals of National Socialism and the British Fascist Party. He was no coward, either, but he did have a nagging suspicion at the back of his mind that, in the present situation, he would have benefited from more experience of active service.

  Lieutenant Grainger had found Marjorie Humphrey’s sketchpad. He had ripped half a dozen sheets from it, spread them across the dining table, and drawn a rough map of the church and their own positions around it. They had re-taken the hill, at severe cost, but had lost the Vickers. The trees around the church were a hazard to throwing grenades from distance as they could snag in the branches and fall short. The people in the church could go nowhere but, similarly, neither could the SS. It was a stand off.

  Major Alistair let the officers make their suggestions and point at Grainger’s map and watched the reaction of the company sergeant majors.

  ‘What do you think, Jock?’ he asked one of them.

  ‘It’s a bastard, sir. We should a’ brought mortars or a tank.’

  Captain Mortimer, CC of D Company, who had been in charge of the perimeter for most of the morning and had seen no action, said, with a touch of pique, ‘There shouldn’t have been any opposition, Company Sergeant Major. It’s easy to criticise after the event.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Major Alistair caught the CSM’s eye to let him know he agreed with his assessment and sipped tea. If they were to make another assault, it would be the last. They would either take the church or they would again be defeated and have to wait for reinforcements. He suspected morale was low after the setbacks. One more defeat and they would need a month on Guernsey on guard and killing duty to recover.

  The telephone rang in the hall and, a moment later, the corporal wireless operator knocked and entered.

  ‘It’s working, sir.’

  ‘Right. Get me Lieutenant Colonel McKeown at Chester.’

  ‘Are we going to wait?’ said Captain Mortimer, disappointment apparent in his voice.

  ‘Whatever we do, we shall need the 2nd Battalion, if only to level the buildings,’ Alistair said. ‘We have no explosives and these troopers will need a rest. I’ve a good mind to let them loose in Knutsford tonight. Get drunk, crack a few heads, let off steam.’

  Lieutenant Grainger said, ‘In their mood, they’d wreck the place.’

  ‘Sir?’ the corporal called.

  Major Alistair went into the hall, closing the door behind him, glad to be out of their sight.

  ‘Colonel?’

  ‘Major. What the hell is happening?’

  ‘We’ve lost Colonel Dunn and saboteurs blew up Battalion HQ. We have many dead and wounded and are low on ammunition. I have assumed command, Colonel, and I request that you proceed here as soon as possible.’

  ‘You can’t handle it?’

  ‘We need artillery. Mortars at least. They have guns and have barricaded themselves inside the church. And we need more explosives to level the place.’

  ‘Shit. What a cock up. A fucking English village.’

  ‘Will you come, sir?’

  ‘Aye, we’ll come laddie. Don’t fill your breeches. We’ll be there by 1500
hours and we’ll blast the bastards out.’

  Alistair replaced the receiver on the cradle and felt relief creep over him. The decision was made and discretion was going to be the better part of valour, as far as he was concerned. The phone rang again and surprised him. He picked it up and said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to speak to the Officer Commanding,’ the voice said. An English voice.

  ‘This is the Officer Commanding,’ he snapped. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘SS General Hyde.’ The relief drained from Alistair. Hyde was General Sinclair’s deputy and now head of the SS. ‘You are?’

  ‘SS Major Duncan Alistair, sir.” Alistair stood to attention.

  ‘Where’s Alex Dunn?’

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Dunn is dead, sir. We have suffered heavy casualties.’

  ‘You’ve suffered what? You were sent to liquidate greengrocers and farmers. You have proved to be a disgrace to the SS.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sir Oswald does not like the stink you’ve made. The Fuhrer will like it even less, if he ever gets to hear about it. Your battalion is on the brink of being disbanded and sent to the camps. And not as guards. Do I make myself clear, Major?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now clear that church, kill everyone inside and level that blasted village. Do it quickly, do it ruthlessly and do it now. If you don’t, you know the consequences.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The phone went dead and, when Alistair replaced the receiver, his hand was shaking. Well, the men would now have something to fight for if only their own survival. They might not listen to rallying cries that exhorted bravery and self-sacrifice but they would react to threats.

  Discretion was no longer a consideration. It was valour or nothing.

  Chapter 39

  Manchester

  The Beatles took Helen and Brian into the Granada Television studios in Manchester as part of their entourage. They drank tea and coffee and ate sandwiches in the Green Room where artists waited before being called before the cameras. Their roadies had arrived earlier and set up their equipment and the band went through a perfunctory sound check to keep the producer happy, even though they had no intention of playing.

  Their broadcast was due to be screened live and was being networked as part of a New Year’s Day show that had started at noon. They would be interviewed and were supposed to play their number one hit record. Later in the day, they were scheduled to go to the BBC studios for a special edition of Juke Box Jury.

  The studio personnel were on edge with reports from Scotland and rumours from Cheshire. There had been telephone calls to the television station alleging the SS had begun to wipe out a village 25 miles away. A reporter asked the authorities for information and received a telephone call from the Manchester office of the State Police. They said a D-Notice had been issued about events in Cheshire.

  The assistant producer, a young man in glasses, a thatch of hair and a green sweater embroidered with a reindeer, held a clipboard and looked anxious. He sensed the band were in an odd mood.

  ‘Everything all right, guys?’ he said.

  ‘Everything’s lovely,’ said Ringo, putting another neatly cut sandwich into his mouth.

  The assistant producer smiled, waved his clipboard and said, ‘I’ll check with Jimmy that everything’s all right.’

  As he left, he collided with Neil Aspinall in the doorway. With Neil was Vince Slater and another young man.

  ‘Sorry, chief,’ said Neil.

  ‘Er, who are these?’

  John said, ‘Roadies.’

  The assistant producer did not look convinced but left without argument.

  Vince said, ‘This is Alec.’

  They nodded hello to each other.

  ‘What about the films?’ John said.

  He had persuaded Brian and Helen to give the cassettes of 35 mm film to Vince and to hand the cine film to Tim Rumbelow; the producer of the show, so that he could have it transferred to a format that could be broadcast. He had not told him the true contents but had said it was private film that might make an exclusive.

  Vince said, ‘Developed, printed and sent to all the Manchester offices of the national Press, the Manchester Evening News, the BBC, Granada and the Press Association, along with a copy of the statement made by Helen and Brian.’ He took an envelope from beneath his jacket and shook a selection of black and white photographs onto the coffee table. ‘They’re amazing.’

  John, George, Ringo and Paul looked through the pictures.

  Helen said, ‘Will anybody use them?’

  ‘They’ll be used.’

  John looked at the clock on the wall.

  ‘I’d better check with Jimmy,’ he said.

  Brian said, ‘Will they show the film?’

  ‘There may be some resistance.’ He smiled. “I’ll just have to use my charm. If that doesn’t work, I’ll resort to violence.’

  ‘He’s good on violence,’ George told Brian.

  John opened the door and Paul joined him.

  ‘You need a diplomat with you,’ said Paul.

  They went down a corridor to the studio where they would be appearing. A settee and two low armchairs were on a set in front of cameras and lights; in another part of the studio was a drum kit and guitars on stands. Technicians worked among the equipment. At the back of the room was a glass gallery where the producer and his assistants controlled camera angles and content and cut for commercials.

  Paul said, ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ They exchanged a frank look. ‘What are we going to do? Pretend we don’t know what’s happened? Look, if this goes wrong, we could end up like Beefy. You don’t have to do it. I can do it on my own.’

  ‘You think it’s worth it?’

  ‘I do. But then, I’m more bloody minded than you and George and Ringo.’

  John was used to loss. He had lost his mother, his closest friend Stuart Sutcliffe who had died of a brain condition, and Peter Bergfeld had undoubtedly been executed. Besides, being a pop star was emptier than he had imagined. He felt it was time to push and see what happened when it came to shove. Paul was different; Paul liked to work out rights and wrongs in his head before coming to a conclusion. Paul liked answers where John sometimes didn’t even know the questions.

  Paul said, ‘We’re in this together, but tell me one thing. What do you think we can achieve?’

  ‘Maybe we’ll start a revolution.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll have to run away to Scotland.’

  They climbed the steps to the control room and the assistant producer in the green jumper tried to stop them.

  ‘Sorry, boys. No one’s allowed in here.’

  ‘Really?’

  John walked past him and entered the glass-windowed room. Jimmy Henson, the presenter, was leaning over the shoulder of producer Tim Rumbelow, watching a monitor. They both looked round at the forced entrance. Rumbelow was a young and studious man, who wore headphones around his neck, a floppy cardigan that was worn at the elbows, a shirt with the top button unfastened and a tie hanging like a poorly fitting noose.

  Henson was the station’s stalwart presenter and wore a blazer and grey slacks and was immaculate. He was 50 and it was rumoured he wore his make-up to go home in. While he was not a Party member, his career had been secured by keeping close to the Party line. He had interviewed the band once before; a stilted interview, where the old school met the new.

  Now he turned an outraged face to John and Paul and said, ‘We can’t show this. You know we can’t.’

  ‘Can we look?’ said John.

  Rumbelow spoke into a microphone and said, ‘Play it again.’

  John and Paul leaned over the monitor and watched the jumpy black and white silent footage. The first shots were dark and showed the interior of the church; ordinary men with shotguns peered out of windows, others carried pitchforks, an old chap had a hand scythe and a man and woman had longbows.

 
; The scene changed and showed a village; cottages, houses, shop and pub, set around a green, in the middle of which was a Christmas tree. A man walked across the grass.

  ‘That must the vicar,’ said John. ‘The Rev James Beatty.’

  Helen and Brian had told them what had happened.

  Soldiers could be seen outside the houses. The vicar was walking towards an armoured car. Before he got there, an old man was pulled from a house and pushed to the ground. A soldier shot him and the vicar pushed past and knelt by the body. He stood up and they could see by his actions that he was remonstrating with the officers in the armoured car. The vicar flinched and looked over his shoulder and the camera panned, badly, and focused on a cottage on the other side of the village green where smoke and debris was still settling from an explosion. A trooper with a flamethrower blasted liquid fire into the building that quickly set alight.

  ‘There were two old women in there,’ said John. “Sisters. Miss Agnes and Miss Doris.’

  The film jumped. It focussed back on the vicar who stood in front of the armoured car. An officer leaned forward and shot him. Another jump and it picked up an elderly couple on the edge of the village green; first the man was shot and then the woman. Another jump, that gave the impression something had happened out of frame, and the camera moved back to the armoured car and the figure of a man balanced on the roof of a building, holding a bottle from which hung a flaming rag.

  ‘That’s the postman,’ John said.

  They watched the figure throw the petrol bomb and the armoured car burst into flames and the camera moved away and panned down the village green, blurring past the burning cottage, and resting out-of-focus on the remains of a building that had recently been blown apart. The sequence ended abruptly and the next shot showed the top of the church tower, a girl, her face white and frightened, who held a camera, and a man with a rifle, shooting methodically.

  The camera looked over the top of the tower again and the pub on the other side of the green was now ablaze. Soldiers were shooting at the church. Stone chips flew across the lens of the camera and its operator ducked out of the firing line. The next footage was from inside the church: faces strained with fear, men firing shotguns through holes broken in the stained glass windows, glass fragmenting around them from return fire, a man with a severe leg wound being carried to a makeshift surgery in the church, another who’s face was bleeding being helped to the same place by a woman.