Only one radio still survived and schoolboy James Marshall concentrated on making it work. He was elated when he got Voice Of America and shouted the news.
‘We’re on the radio. We’re on the radio.’
Everyone fell silent and strained to hear the report above the cries of the wounded being treated in the Lady Chapel. Not everyone could hear the broadcast and the news was passed round by word of mouth.
‘They say they’re fighting in Europe and there’s trouble in India.’
‘Helen and Brian have been on TV. They showed the cine film on TV.’
‘Scotland has declared independence … there’s fighting in Newcastle … the Beatles were on TV with Brian and Helen …’
‘Who are the Beatles?’
‘… they play pop music … they say we’re still fighting in Ollerton …’
‘Well, we are.’
Willie was with Richard in the body of the church.
‘James, try to get the Home Service,’ Willie said.
‘Still think it’s propaganda?’ said Richard.
Willie shrugged.
James tuned the radio and found a news bulletin from the BBC. They listened in shock as it echoed the same reports as the American station, although not in such a dramatic fashion or making the same predictions or drawing the same conclusions. It was a BBC report, after all, delivered in cultured, measured BBC tones, and all the more unbelievable because of it. They were on the BBC.
‘Do you think people will come, Mr Ashford?’ asked James. ‘Do you think we’ll be saved?’
Willie smiled at the boy in the torn and smoke blackened school uniform. His mother Alison stroked his hair with one hand, her rifle over her shoulder on its strap.
‘Let’s hope so, James.’ He looked beyond the boy to the others, the bleeding, bandaged and torn defenders of the church. He estimated about 40 men were fit to fight. Alongside them were 30 women who had helped husbands and sons at the windows. ‘But the SS may attack before they do. I think we should arm ourselves with anything we can.’
‘In case they break in?’ said Mr Brown, the bank clerk and stretcher-bearer.
‘Yes. In case they break in.’
Alison and James went down the stairs to the cellar, to tell them down there that a last battle was imminent.
Those who had bayonets for the rifles fitted them. Others took up the weapons they had originally brought to the church the night before: pitchforks, spades, cricket bats, kitchen knives taped to the ends of wooden staffs that had recently been pushing brooms. So many had been killed and injured that there were plenty of weapons.
Willie watched them with wonder and pride. They had suffered so much already, had lost friends, loved ones, neighbours. He had no doubt they would fight to the end, whilst hoping against hope that help would arrive. But they were pitifully few against the hundreds of troopers that would come against them.
He turned at the sounds of footsteps coming up the stone stairs from the cellar beneath the tower. Women emerged, some defiantly, some sniffing back tears; women of all ages. With them were boys as young as 12. They were led by Alison Marshall.
‘They want to fight,’ she said.
‘What about the children?’
‘There are enough grandmothers to take care of the children.’
The women exchanged embraces with loved ones and friends and picked up weapons. One made a joke and, unbelievably, two others laughed. He saw their lips quiver and knew how close the laughter was to tears.
Alison said, ‘Don’t worry, Willie. They won’t let anyone down.’
Her 13-year-old son James held her hand. In his other hand, he gripped a homemade spear and he had a set of darts in his top pocket.
So, it had come to this, Willie thought.
Knutsford
Simon Humphrey felt exposed as he let himself out of the court building but no one seemed to be taking any notice. He steadied himself for a moment against dizziness and then went down the stone steps onto the large cobbled parking area in front of the building. The military vehicles had gone and it was almost empty.
He crossed the main road and went into the graveyard of the parish church. At the door of the church, he turned left and took the path that led to the steep lane down to King Street. He stopped at the gate and looked behind him but no one was following. It was strange to be free when he should be dead. He wondered if many had died in Ollerton. He thought of Susan, his mother and father and his friends. He wondered if any of them had been killed.
Ashford’s was down the street. If Willie Ashford was there, he would help him. He had to stop and steady himself again. The ordeal had taken more out of him than he had thought and he was light-headed at escape. The door to Ashford’s front office was locked but the gates at the side were open and a Wolsley car, that he recognised as Willie’s, was parked in the yard. Lights were on in offices that overlooked the yard. He went into the building, down a corridor and opened an inside door.
‘Simon.’ Sheila Ashford sat in her wheelchair behind a desk, a telephone in her hand. She put it back in its cradle. ‘How did you get out?’
Mary, the Ashfords’ housekeeper, came to his side and took his arm and he realised he was shaking. Two other people were in the office, a young man and a young woman that he knew by sight. Mary helped him to a chair.
‘Sergeant Devlin let me out. The police have locked up the Gestapo. Protective custody.’ He looked round the room. ‘Where’s Mr Ashford?’
‘He’s with your father, Simon. He’s in the village, fighting the SS.’
‘I must go to them,’ he said, and tried to stand up. ‘It’s my fault …’
‘I think it’s time we all went and joined them,’ said Sheila.
Ollerton
Major Duncan Alistair sat in an armchair in the sitting room of Colonel Jimmy Humphrey’s house and drank the last of the Scotch. His company commanders and sergeants arrived to join him, the officers taking seats, the sergeants standing.
‘Sorry,’ Alistair said, tilting the empty bottle. ‘We’ve run out of Scotch, as well as ammunition. We may also have run out of luck.’
‘That could be a relief. So far it’s all been bad,’ said Captain Mortimer, who had now seen action and hadn’t liked it.
‘And getting worse,’ said Alistair. ‘Lt Col McKeown will not be arriving with the 2nd Battalion.’
‘What?’ said Mortimer. ‘Why on earth not?’
‘We have been ordered to finish this on our own.’ Alistair dare not tell them that regular army troops had prevented the move from Chester. ‘You all know what will happen if we don’t.’ He stood up and straightened his belt. ‘So we will complete this mission, with fixed bayonets and extreme prejudice.’
‘Easily said but they’re still safe behind those damned church walls,’ said Mortimer.
Alistair rounded on the captain.
‘No matter what your feelings are on the subject, Captain, this will be done. And you will take part, with a rifle and bayonet, and we will succeed. And do you know why? Because if we don’t, we will be put against a wall and shot for dereliction of duty.’
The silence was complete and Alistair let it linger until the message sank in. Eventually, he looked at Company Sergeant Major Jock McGrew.
‘Did you get it, Jock?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Then, gentlemen, we will not be going empty handed. The CSM has acquired a further supply of explosives from a demolition company in Northwich. We will attack with gelignite and bayonets, gentlemen. We shall blow a breach in their walls and fill it with bayonets and I will then be able to report to the Prime Minister that the job is done. Understand?’
He stared at Mortimer and the captain came to attention and said, ‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced around the room and the other officers and NCOs answered in the affirmative.
‘And tell your men, gentlemen. Leave them under no illusion. They die taking that damn church, or they die facing a firing squad.’
>
Chapter 43
London
The Chiefs of the General Staff gathered in the anteroom outside the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street for an emergency meeting called by Sir Oswald Mosley. They were led by Admiral Sir Archibald Brown, the head of the UK armed forces and the principal military adviser to the Secretary of State for Defence and the Government; the Vice Chief of Staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Michael Bottram, who had responsibility for personnel and resources; the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Keith North, General Sir Peter Plummer, and Air Chief Marshal Sir Brian Wilkinson. With them were Home Secretary James Dawson and Defence Secretary Hugh Taylor, the head of the State Police, Commander Stafford Cole, and the new head of the SS, General Colin Hyde.
Sir Oswald Mosley and Sir Harold Philby drank malt in the study upstairs.
‘This goes from bad to worse,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘It should be kept in perspective, sir. It’s the first hint of unrest since the Coventry closures and they were 20 years ago.’
‘How damaging was the broadcast?’
‘Quite damaging but news is a 24 hour phenomenon. People quickly forget. We will give them a different perspective in tomorrow’s papers and what a pop group said will be history.’
‘But will Ollerton be history?’
‘It was, sir, a cruel necessity, and necessity hath no law.’
Sir Oswald said, ‘Who are you quoting?’
‘Cromwell. A true Englishman who always acted in the best interest of the nation.’
‘Will history see me in the same light?’
‘Undoubtedly, sir.’
Mosley stared at the picture of Hitler.
‘What about the Fuhrer? I’ve seen the reports. The Luftwaffe have been making air strikes against the SS. Lithuania is on the brink. There’s a stand-off in Berlin.’
‘Fascism is a revolutionary concept. Perhaps it’s time for the revolution to renew itself. When this is over, both you and the Fuhrer will be stronger than ever. You will have fought side by side and, don’t forget, he no longer has a natural successor.’
‘You’re talking nonsense, Kim.’
The Prime Minister turned from viewing the picture and Philby knew the suggestion had hit home.
‘It’s something you should bear in mind, sir.’
Mosley nodded, finished the whisky and put his glass on a table.
‘But first, we have our own domestic problems. Bottom line. Are we okay on this?’
‘Valkyrie is up and running. Everything will be fine.’
‘I thought Guy was joining us?’
‘He must be delayed.’ Mosley’s eyebrows lifted and Philby added, ‘If it was anything serious, we would have heard. Because he’s late, he may have gone directly to the Cabinet Room. Perhaps we should, too, sir.’
‘I suppose we must.’ Mosley finished the drink. ‘Although all I’ll hear will be excuses from General Hyde and complaints from Sir Archibald that he wasn’t consulted and dire warnings from Plummer that India is bleeding us dry of men. Have the disturbances there got any worse?’
‘There are always disturbances in India. Blame the age of modern technology. Radio and television reports have exaggerated what’s happening here and a few hot heads are trying to take advantage over there. It will settle down again, like Scotland.’ Philby put his glass down, picked up his briefcase and said, ‘Shall we, sir?’
‘Right.’
Sir Oswald Mosley led the way down the Grand Staircase lined with portraits of past national leaders. As they reached the bottom, Burgess entered the residence. He was flushed, out of breath and looked untidier than usual. He carried, in both arms across his chest, a briefcase that bulged papers.
‘You’re late, Guy,’ said Mosley.
‘Sorry, sir. I was talking to Sir Anthony Blunt. He had an audience with the King this afternoon.’
‘And his Majesty needs reassurance?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So do the Chiefs.’
Mosley went down the corridor and they followed him, past the gentleman’s lavatory, the windows that looked out onto the inner courtyard, and the office of Sir Oswald’s private secretary, Sir Martin Pew. His military leaders, all handpicked for their political loyalty, and his ministers, stopped talking amongst themselves when he entered the anteroom.
‘Shall we gentlemen?’ he said, and led the way into the Cabinet Room.
He took his chair, the only one with arms, which sat before the white marble fireplace, and indicated that Philby should sit next to him on his right, while Burgess sat directly across from him on the far side of the table. Admiral Sir Archibald Brown sat to the Prime Minister’s left and the others ranged themselves around the table. All had briefcases and map cases. It had all the portents of a long meeting. Sir Martin Pew, a small man with impeccable manners and dress sense, followed them in and sat at the far end of the oblong table.
‘No formal minutes will be taken, gentlemen, said Mosley. ‘But my secretary will take notes.’
Daniel Day-Brown was a 28-year-old Oxford graduate who was diffident and efficient. He was assistant to Sir Martin Pew and attempted to disguise the fact that he was six inches taller than his superior by adopting a deferential stoop. This did nothing for his posture but, he hoped, would ensure a successful career in the civil service.
He entered the Cabinet Room and silently padded down its length and handed a slip of paper to Philby. Maps had been spread on the table and Sir Michael Bottram, the Vice Chief of Staff, was explaining the disposition of forces close to the capital. SS General Colin Hyde had interrupted to urge the immediate movement of two battalions of the SS from Coventry to act as personal bodyguard to the Prime Minister.
‘You would weaken Coventry and give the populace the wrong impression,’ said Bottram.
‘You’ve done that already by blocking the movement of the 2nd Caledonian Battalion.’
‘In hindsight, you will find that has saved your men from further embarrassment,’ snapped Bottram. ‘Two battalions for one village?’ He glanced at the Prime Minister. ‘Not that I agreed with the decision in the first place.’
‘A cruel necessity,’ quoted the PM.
Philby leaned towards Mosley and said, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment, sir.’ He showed him the slip of paper whose message read: Sir Anthony Blunt is on the telephone. He asks to speak to you urgently.
Mosley raised an eyebrow. ‘Should we be worried?’
‘I doubt it. Sir Anthony enjoys drama. But I’d better speak to him.’
‘Of course.’
‘Would you mind if I took Guy along? A few facts of reassurance from a friend might settle Sir Anthony’s mind. And if he’s settled, so is the King.’
‘Do what you have to, Kim,’ whispered Mosley, ‘but hurry back. ‘The military mind tends to go round in circles.’
‘We’ll be straight back, sir.’
Philby glanced across the table at Burgess, who was watching quizzically, and pointed to the door. Philby moved his briefcase, which was on the floor and resting against his chair, and walked down the room. Burgess followed. Daniel Day-Brown led the way through the anteroom into the corridor and the open door into Sir Martin Pew’s office. A telephone receiver was off its cradle on the desk. Philby gave the assistant a meaningful look and the man excused himself and stepped back into the corridor, closing the door behind him.
‘Anthony?’ Philby said into the telephone, keeping his voice steady.
‘Is that you, Kim?’ said Blunt.
His voice was tremulous and Philby looked across the room at Burgess who was lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. He had never seen him so nervous.
‘It’s me.’
‘The King and Queen left for Croydon half an hour ago. They will take a Royal Flight to Buenos Aires.’
‘They have been well advised.’
‘Did I get the time right?’
The explosions shook the room. A painting dropped from a wall, the doors of a
wooden cabinet burst open and documents and folders cascaded onto the carpet. Plaster fell from the ceiling. Burgess gripped the back of a chair, his eyes wide.
‘Did you hear that?’ Philby said into the telephone.
‘Was it …?’ Blunt’s voice petered out.
‘Your timing was perfect,’ Philby said.
He put the telephone down and took a Luger pistol from inside his jacket. Burgess produced a Browning revolver. They went into the corridor to find Daniel Day-Brown slack-faced in shock.
Burgess gave him orders. ‘Call an ambulance. Get Sir Oswald’s doctor and tell the police to seal the building. And send head of security here.’ Gibbins of the Special Protection Squad came running down the corridor, making the last order redundant. ‘Do it, man.’
Daniel Day-Brown hurried off. Philby entered the anteroom, Burgess behind him.
‘What happened?’ Gibbins said.
‘We’re about to find out,’ Burgess said.
Philby opened the double doors and smoke and dust swirled out. He stepped through, into a room that had seen the making of so much history and was now the scene of so much devastation. His own briefcase had been on the floor, Burgess’s on the cabinet table. Both had been packed with explosives and they had pressed the timers simultaneously before they left the room.
The table had acted as a shield between the two blasts. The one at ground level had detached and shattered lower limbs; the one on the table had devastated torsos and heads. Blood and stickiness dripped from walls and curtains. Windows had been blown out into the garden. Body parts were distributed on the furniture and carpet like surreal works of art: a hand rested incongruously on top of the clock on the mantelpiece of the white marble fireplace that was now stained, cracked and streaked.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 30