The Heydrich Sanction

by Denis Kilcommons

  Tony Ogilvy, using a piece of wood as a club, was bayoneted in the thigh and fell on the stones. Another bayonet thrust was aimed at his back but his wife Susan threw herself over him and took the blade in her side, daughter Ruth straddled their bodies and a slash from the butcher’s knife she held, ripped across a trooper’s throat and sprayed crimson.

  The battle was intense and on the edge of being lost when Eliza led the women of the shotgun reserve in between the defenders to blast the enemy with four double-barrels at close and deadly range. It was a volley that temporarily cleared the breach and rocked the troopers back to take stock. This was a defence they had never expected.

  Willie’s hand was slippery with blood on the bayonet grip and he became aware of the bodies around him. Men, women and boys lay dead and wounded and were being pulled back in the brief break and their places were being taken by others, who picked up discarded weapons as they came to fill the gaps. Richard Marshall was bleeding from stab wounds but was still immoveable and old Jasper came climbing back over the stones like a blood-soaked terrier.

  Eliza came to stand between Willie and the Colonel. The sawn-off had been discarded and she held an assault rifle with fixed bayonet. The soldiers were gathering again, their remaining NCOs cursing them into line for the last attack, and the surviving defenders waited, each breath they took an ache, their devastated village burning and blasted beyond the green.

  Willie glanced down at Eliza.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It had to be said.’

  ‘I love you, too.’

  The Colonel, whose ache was total at losing both his son and his wife, said, ‘They’re coming again.’

  The troopers began their charge but the sound of car horns and fire engine bells distracted them. Vehicles drove onto the village green and the noise of their horns was a direct, civilian challenge. The charge faltered and defenders and attackers faced each other across a five-yard no-man’s land. Troopers at the rear and on the road turned to see who the arrivals were.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Willie said.

  ‘I think you’ve got your miracle,’ said the Colonel.

  The men from the vehicles formed into a mob and troopers faced them with fixed bayonets. The mob grew as more cars arrived. It swelled with civilians, firemen and police officers. Vince Slater put his hand under his jacket and onto the revolver he carried. John saw the movement and said, ‘Not yet.’

  The divisional police chief inspector from Knutsford stepped from the throng and addressed Major Duncan Alistair.

  ‘Are you the officer commanding?’

  ‘What the hell has it got to do with you? This village is off limits. Get out of here now.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Major. I think you should call a halt to your action.’

  Newspaper photographers were taking pictures and a television van had arrived and the crew was already filming.

  ‘I am following lawful orders,’ said the Major. ‘I am rooting out traitors in this village and you will not stop me.’ He glanced along the line of bayonets held by his men and shouted, ‘These civilians are not to interfere. If they try, kill them.’

  ‘Sir,’ Lt Grainger said. ‘Look.’

  Major Alistair smiled. Army vehicles began to enter the village from Top Lane. Troop carriers drove onto the green and two Land Rovers continued to drive towards him.

  Now he could finally get the damn job done.

  The SS Troopers in the churchyard laughed and grinned. A few cheered at the arrival of the military. The spirit of the defenders inside the church sagged. Hope had been close enough to touch and now it had been taken away.

  ‘We don’t deserve this,’ Richard Marshall said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Willie. ‘They’re not SS. They’ve not come to kill.’

  The Land Rovers stopped between the SS bayonets and the throng of civilians on the edge of the village green. Officers and a Battalion Sergeant Major got out. The officers wore side arms and the BSM carried a Stengun. Behind them, soldiers spilled from the trucks and began to form ranks under the shouted instructions of NCOs.

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Max Turner,’ the senior officer said. ‘Third Battalion of the Cheshire Regiment of the Territorial Army. Are you the Officer Commanding?’

  Major Alistair came to attention and gave the fascist salute. Colonel Turner flapped a regulation salute in return that was less than courteous.

  ‘Major Duncan Alistair, 1st Battalion, Caledonian SS. Yes, sir. I am Officer Commanding.’

  ‘Then I suggest you order your men to stand down. This action is over.’

  ‘Sir?’ Alistair was indignant. ‘We are on the point of completing it. Another 10 minutes and it will be over.’

  ‘It’s over now, Major.’ Col Turner nodded to an aide who talked into a radio on the back of the second Land Rover. The soldiers on the green held their weapons at the ready and moved forward. They stopped at an order and levelled their rifles. Another order was shouted and everyone heard the bolts slide home. ‘You will order your men to lay down their arms, Major. They will be taken into protective custody.’

  ‘Protective custody?’

  ‘If they prefer, they can be shot.’ The bayonets wavered and began to drop. ‘Issue the order, Major.’

  Major Duncan Alistair issued the order. Junior officers and NCOs spread the word throughout the remnants of his force.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘The Prime Minister is dead. General Sterling has taken charge. And you can count yourself under arrest.’

  ‘But why? I was only obeying orders.’

  ‘I should imagine we’ll hear that excuse time and again in the weeks ahead.’ He glanced round at the ambulance crews and medical people, that included doctors who had arrived in their own cars, and said to his aide, ‘Get our medics in there and see what’s needed.’ He looked at the ambulance personnel and the doctors. ‘I think the people in there need your help,’ he said.

  Simon Humphrey pushed through the SS troopers and stared in disbelief at the shattered wall of the church and the grim and bleeding defenders, who were still unable to believe that the miracle had occurred.

  ‘Ruth?’ he said, shocked at the sight of the young woman who stood upon the rubble, her face, hair and clothes stained red, a knife still gripped in her hand and bodies of soldiers at her feet. ‘Dad?’

  His father said, ‘Simon? Is it over?’

  ‘It’s over.’

  Camera flash bulbs flared and medical people began to climb into the church. Newly arrived civilians helped. The Colonel nodded to his son and stepped back into the church. Simon went hesitantly to Ruth who hadn’t moved and was still wild eyed. He stood in front of her and looked for recognition and slowly it came. The tension inside her broke and she took a deep, shuddering, breath.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ she said.

  He nodded, not knowing what to say. She looked at the knife in her hand as if she was seeing it for the first time. She dropped it and her shoulders began to sag and he took her into his arms and she began to sob.

  The Colonel briefed a Major about their casualties and the location of their morgue. He went from one group to another, trying to ensure that first help was given where it was most urgently needed. Willie watched him; taking care of his people. Two civilians came from the Lady Chapel redoubt, holding Dr Frank Beevers between them. The doctor wore an apron stained in blood and his arms were red up to his elbows. He was so exhausted he could not walk unaided.

  Richard Marshall sat slumped on the stones, his right arm around Alison. James, their son, stood on the rubble by their side, his spear still in his hand, and stared out in wonder at the troopers being disarmed and led away. Richard felt Willie’s gaze and returned the stare; he said nothing but simply nodded an affirmation. They had survived.

  Eliza threw the assault rifle over the rubble and onto the grass. She took Willie’s arm and they climb
ed outside. He dropped the bayonet on the ground and put his good arm around her and she held him tight. He stared at the sky and wondered why God had taken so long.

  ‘You look a mess,’ the voice said. He looked down at his wife in her wheelchair, Mary behind her, looking anxiously into the church. ‘The pair of you look a mess.’ He smiled and Eliza came out from under his arm to stare at her sister. ‘Thank God you’re both all right,’ Sheila said.

  ‘Joe?’ said Mary. ‘Is Joe all right?’

  Willie’s smile faded.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mary.’

  She closed her eyes and held on tightly to the wheelchair. Sheila reached round and placed a hand over her hand and Eliza left Willie and went to hold her. Words about bravery were no good at this time, he knew. This was a time for shock and mourning and holding on for a little longer until emotions dulled just enough for Mary and all the others to realise they had to carry on, that life would eventually resume a kind of normality.

  He looked at his wife and she stared back with understanding.

  Their life together would resume, but things would change. Things had changed. Things would never be the same again.

  ‘There’s a news bulletin from London,’ someone shouted. Car radios were tuned to the broadcast and someone brought a transistor radio to the church and everyone listened to a BBC studio announcer say they were going live to Downing Street.

  They listened as a reporter talked in hushed tones, providing background of the day’s events. General David Sterling, hero of the Russian War, Commander of the Territorial Army and Operational Head of Valkyrie, had arrived at 10 Downing Street 30 minutes before and regular army troops had taken up position in Whitehall; swastikas and SS flags were being removed from public buildings. The door of number 10 was opening, he said, and here came General Sterling towards the bank of microphones.

  The General’s words were clipped, authoritative and reassuring: ‘The Prime Minister, Home Secretary and Foreign Secretary, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, have been killed by bombs that were placed in the Cabinet Room. This has effectively removed the Government of Sir Oswald Mosley from office. I can also tell you that King Edward and Queen Wallis have left Great Britain by aircraft for Argentina. They are not expected to return.

  ‘I am, therefore, assuming power in the name of the people of Great Britain, to ensure the nation’s security and the eventual transition, through fair and honest elections, to a democratically elected government.

  ‘In the last 24 hours, the people of Great Britain have let it be known that they are not content to live under a dictatorship that is part of a European Union dominated by Nazi Germany. The final straw has been the sanction that was imposed upon a small and innocent village in Cheshire called Ollerton. That sanction has been removed and those involved in attempting to carry it out will be punished.

  ‘I have spoken to President Kennedy in America and made our position clear and he has offered unconditional help. I have spoken to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, in Canada, and she is preparing to return to her homeland and her throne. I have spoken to the Prime Ministers of Canada, Australia and New Zealand and received their support. I therefore speak with the backing of much of the free world, and the British armed forces, at the dawn of a new beginning.

  ‘I ask citizens everywhere to act with responsibility and patience. Change will happen. Wrongs will be righted. But for now, we all have to work together, with fortitude and determination, to ensure that our nation remains free and in our own hands. Thank you.’

  Chapter 46

  London. January 8, 1964

  Sir Harold ‘Kim’ Philby and Guy Burgess lunched at The Savoy. They had a table with a view of the river. The ambience was civilised and normal, a situation far removed from that in much of Europe, where nations struggled to regain their independence, or in Germany, which seemed to be pulling itself apart.

  Hitler remained in Berchtesgaden in fast declining health and increasing isolation as his SS battalions destroyed each other and his Eastern empire collapsed. Regular Wehrmacht units were abandoning their garrison duties because of unrest at home and were returning to Germany where political opposition was forming and demanding change.

  Philby glanced around at the great, the good and the wealthy that sat at the other tables and said, ‘A bit different from The Dockers Arms.’

  Burgess laughed.

  ‘Good God. Do you remember The Dockers Arms? You only went once, as I recall.’

  ‘Once was enough. The visit left an indelible impression.’

  ‘Boris and I used to meet there.’

  ‘It was also the only time I met Boris. How is he?’

  ‘Active in Belarus. He’s determined to make the domino theory work.’

  ‘It will work without him. Europe is going to look very different.’

  ‘I’m still amazed it happened so quickly.’

  ‘We unleashed a genie. It’s a lot easier to take the cork out than to try to put it back.’

  ‘Did you have any doubts about it working?’

  ‘I had doubts we might survive,’ said Philby. ‘But the country was ready. The world, it seems, was ready.’

  ‘It’s taken a long time,’ said Burgess. ‘There were occasions when I thought, bugger it …’ He laughed and Philby gave him a look of disapproval; even a semi-celibate Burgess had indulged in too many homosexual romps for safety over the last 20 years. ‘But we persevered, didn’t we, old chap? For the greater good, and all that.’

  Philby had for years fed intelligence to Jim Angleton of the CIA, through Sir Donald MacLean in Washington, about the true strengths of Hitler’s military power and the shortcomings in the Reich’s inter-ballistic missile programmes.

  He and Burgess had nurtured links with those similarly working for change in Germany, the underground Kreisau Circle to which Bergfeld belonged, the Wehrmacht, the British armed services, and the monarch and government in exile in Canada. There had been many disparate groups involved, some anxious for action, others willing to step out of the shadows only at the last minute; there had been those willing to chance all and those hoping to chance little but who were ready to embrace a new beginning. Plot and counter-plot had evolved and been carried out with varying degrees of failure and success until the momentum had become unstoppable.

  Burgess drank wine and smoked a cigarette. He said, ‘Bergfeld shocked me. If he’d talked, he could have put us back years.’

  Philby had also wondered why the German had accepted so much torture when he could have bitten the pill earlier. His death would have been validation enough, without the pain. But his motives would never be known. Perhaps he had seen too much horror in Russia.

  ‘Do you have any regrets?’ Burgess said.

  ‘Only that it didn’t happen sooner.’

  Which was less than an honest answer.

  Philby had ordered the assassination of the wife of the President of the United States to ensure that her husband was impregnable in politics at home. He had also left enough evidence to suggest that the idea for the botched hit had originated in Berlin, to harden the White House administration’s attitude towards Hitler’s Europe. Guy had called it a masterstroke but they had agreed never to talk about it again. He regretted the death of an innocent woman but there had been many innocents killed out of cruel necessity.

  The sanction of Ollerton had been a calculated atrocity to wake up the nation but he had never dreamed it would have worked so effectively and so quickly. That had been down to the villagers who had defied logic and beaten back repeated assaults by Mosley’s SS. Moments like that could not be planned. The villagers had caused Burgess and himself to bring forward their own ultimate sanction in the cabinet room.

  It had been a strange, often uncontrollable and fortunate mix of events that had led to a change of government and the promised restoration of democracy and the legitimate monarch. Hopefully, the secrets he and Burgess shared were well enough buried never to emerge.

 
Burgess stubbed out the cigarette and looked across the diners for their waiter.

  ‘I’m famished. Where’s the damn food?’

  Philby smiled and said, ‘It’ll be here in a minute.’

  His friend stared at him across the table and became serious.

  ‘After all that’s happened, after all we’ve done ... can we survive, Kim?’

  ‘Of course we can, Guy. The Great Game is still there to be played. And we’re the best there is at playing it.’

  Chapter 47

  Easter, Ollerton

  The parish church of St George had been repaired and the bell tolled to call villagers to the wedding of Bob Harvey and Sally Beevers. The headmaster’s wounds had healed and he would resume his teaching duties after the honeymoon.

  Bob waited at the front of the altar with his best man, Barry Wilson, who still needed a stick to walk. Survivors filled the benches. Colonel Jimmy Humphrey, his son Simon, who was with Ruth Ogilvy, and her father, Tony Ogilvy. Tony’s wife Susan had died following the battle at the breech, the bayonet stab she had taken to protect her husband proving fatal. Such personal loss was duplicated throughout the congregation.

  Brian Ogilvy and Helen Roberts sat together and held hands. Her parents had remained in Manchester; her brother had been recalled to his school, to which a new teaching staff had been assigned with a new curriculum that would attempt to repair the damage of indoctrination. Helen lodged at the Colonel’s home where Maureen Wilson had become his temporary housekeeper, until the Black Bull was rebuilt.

  Richard and Alison Marshall and their son James, Kevin Andrews, Wobbly Bob, Nurse Bella Brown, Val Halford: widows and widowers, children without a parent, mothers and fathers without a child, packed the pews. They gathered with mixed emotions, happy for the occasion that to some signified a new beginning, but with memories of what had happened still painful, a churchyard of new graves a permanent reminder of the price they had paid. At the back sat a group of special guests: John, Paul, George, Ringo and Neil.