Young Lions (5 page)

“Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg,” Schuster beckoned. He turned to one of the paratrooper officers standing beside him. “Generalmajor Wurth, may I introduce Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg of the First Battalion the Potsdam Grenadiers and his Second-in Command, Major Lindau.” Schuster introduced the two men graciously.

Von Schnakenberg and Lindau snapped to attention and gave a parade ground salute.

Wurth returned the salute. Von Schnakenberg and Lindau both noticed that it was a textbook German Army salute and not a Nazi Party salute. They wondered if this distinction was significant. Wurth stretched out his hand. “I’m delighted to meet you, Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg and you, Major Lindau. And tell me, Oberstleutnant, how is your father these days?” Wurth asked.

“My father, sir?” Von Schnakenberg’s face showed his surprise.

“Yes, Oberstleutnant. Your father, Major-General Karl von Schnakenberg,” Wurth asked with a raised eyebrow. He was clearly amused by the obvious confusion that he had caused.

“The General is very well, sir.” Von Schnakenberg was curious. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how do you know my father?”

“I served as a young Oberleutnant in the Potsdam Grenadiers under your father’s command during the last War.”

“But you were not in the regiment when I joined, sir.” Von Schnakenberg was clearly puzzled.

“That’s right. I was in the Grenadiers but then I transferred across to the Luftwaffe where I flew with von Richthofen. I was an airline pilot between the wars but I rejoined the Luftwaffe when Goering got it up and running again. I was too old to fly in combat so he asked to help set up the Parachute Regiment. And here I am.”

Schuster coughed. “Sorry to break up this happy reunion, Generalmajor, but perhaps we could return to the matter in hand?”

“Of course, Brigadefuhrer, please accept my apologies,” Wurth said with exaggerated politeness.

“Your apologies are not necessary, Generalmajor,” Schuster said icily. It was glaringly obvious that Schuster’s opinion of Wurth had cooled by several degrees since he had discovered that he and von Schnakenberg were both Grenadiers. Schuster turned to the map. “As of 1200 hours G.M.T. this is the situation as it stands: we have captured Hereward and we are in complete and total control of the town. Our forces have broken out from the beachheads and are pushing north. The present front line runs roughly from the Wash here to Liverpool.” Schuster used his bayonet as a pointer stick.

“What about London, sir?” von Schnakenberg asked.

“We have completely surrounded London. Our tactic is to starve them out. It is effectively one big giant prison camp,” Schuster replied.

“Liverpool is still fighting, as are several other towns and cities. They haven’t surrendered yet. Our troops are having to fight street by street,” Wurth added.

“What about Wales, sir?” Lindau asked.

“We’re pushing into Wales, but it’s a slow and painful business. The roads go through the mountains and our convoys are easy targets for partisans.”

“What about continued British Resistance behind our front lines and along our lines of communications?” von Schnakenberg asked.

“The British are still fighting, von Schnakenberg,” Schuster answered swiftly, gaining control of the conversation again. “Terrorists are cowardly attacking our men in the back and our lines of communications are not secure. However, we are taking steps to deal with the terrorist threat in order to ensure that such an unfortunate situation does not arise again.”

Von Schnakenberg and Lindau both looked at each other. They knew exactly what Schuster was talking about. The execution of hostages as a reprisal action for the killing of German soldiers by partisans.

“The British Bulldog can still bite as well as bark.” Wurth broke the tense silence.

Lindau breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t they realize that they’re beaten?”

“Lions led by donkeys, Major Lindau,” Wurth said grimly. “You were too young for the last war. They fought like lions in the last war and they’re fighting like that now.”

“The British are too stupid to realize that they’re beaten.” Schuster sneered.

“Don’t underestimate the British, BrigadeFuhrer,” Wurth said. “Napoleon did and so did the Kaiser and look what happened to them.”

“Napoleon and the Kaiser are not fit to be mentioned in the same breath as the Fuhrer,” Schuster puffed out his chest. “The Fuhrer is more than a match for the British.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right, Brigadefuhrer,” Wurth said grimly. “For all of our sakes.”

“Keep quiet,” Sam whispered. He crouched down and moved towards the sound of the laughter. Alan was right behind him. They moved slowly through the forest until they could see a group of people ahead in a clearing. Sam crouched behind a tree and Alan knelt beside him.

Four people were kneeling on the ground with their hands up in the air. One man, a woman and two teenage girls. Directly opposite them were eight German soldiers. Some of them were sitting, some of them were standing and some of them were lounging about on the forest floor. A corporal sat on the ground, stabbing his bayonet into the soft moss covered forest floor, digging furrows in the grass. He pointed his bayonet at the kneeling man and spoke to another soldier who was acting as an interpreter.

The corporal asked him something. The other Germans fell about on the forest floor rolling and laughing like a pack of hyenas.

“Are your women clean?” The interpreter asked.

The man’s face drained of blood as if the Grim Reaper had thrust his hand through his chest and squeezed his heart.

The Germans were doubled up on the grassy ground laughing so hard that tears were flowing freely down their cheeks.

“They’re too close to our people…” Alan whispered.

“I know…” Sam started crawling forwards like a leopard.

The Germans started to recover and began to point at the woman and her daughters. They were deciding who would get whom and in which order. Some of the Germans were already putting down their weapons and starting to unloosen their belts.

The corporal suddenly barked an order. The soldiers immediately stopped talking and moving and instantly snapped to attention. He gave a series of short, sharp commands. The soldiers all stood up. One of the girls started crying. Her mother wrapped her arms around both of her children as if she could protect them from the horror that was about to come.

Alan and Sam were now a dozen yards away from the scene unfolding in front of them and quietly took cover behind a fallen tree trunk. They silently slipped off their safety catches and aimed their Schmeissers at the Germans.

The corporal moved towards the mother. Her husband intercepted him blocking the soldier’s path.

“He’s in the way. I can’t get a clear shot,” Sam whispered through gritted teeth..

The soldier stared at the man with a mild look of surprise on his face. A mild look of surprise that turned to one of grudging approval and admiration. A man trying to defend his wife and his children. What could be more natural than that? A very brave man. But an unarmed man. A very foolish man. The man fell backwards clutching his stomach, vainly trying to tug out the bayonet embedded in his intestines.

“Now!” Sam screamed.

A stream of rounds flew out towards the Germans, knocking the corporal and the two would-be-rapists standing behind him off their feet. Alan opened fire a split second later catching another pair of potential pedophiles as they scrambled for their weapons. Sam and Alan charged forwards firing their weapons from the hip. Another soldier spun around and collapsed as the bullets caught him.

“Hande hoch! Hande hoch!” Sam ordered.

The two surviving Germans automatically raised their hands.

Alan and Sam advanced on them breathing heavily.

Alan turned to Sam. “What did you do that for, Sam?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What the hell are we going to do with prisoners?”

“Christ, Al. You’ve changed your tune. You were like a Good Samaritan when I shot those wounded Jerries back at Wake and now you’re a regular Attila the Hun! I wish that you’d make your blasted mind up!”

Alan could tell that Sam was amused rather than annoyed. “That was then this is now,” he explained slowly and patiently as if to a child. “That was before I watched the S.S. massacre the whole regiment in cold blood after they’d surrendered. I’m no longer looking at the world through rose tinted spectacles.”

“For which I’m heartily grateful.”

“But the question still stands: what do we do with these prisoners?” Alan gestured with his Schmeisser.

“We question them,” Sam answered.

“But we don’t speak German.”

“Yes, but laughing boy here speaks English.” Sam looked at one of the soldiers.

The interpreter had survived. Alan nodded his head in understanding. “Be my guest.”

“What is the importance of Hereward?” Sam asked.

The interpreter sneered and spat onto the ground at Sam’s feet.

Sam swung his Schmeisser to the left and fired a burst of bullets at the other surviving soldier. The rounds stitched a line of holes across his stomach almost sawing the German in half. He collapsed with a loud grunt in a bloody heap on the ground.

“Not laughing so much now are you, Fritzie?” Sam said. He looked at the German like a wolf leering at a lamb before it ripped its throat out. “I won’t ask you again, Fritze: what is the importance of Hereward?”

Alan waved his hand in front of his face as the noxious smell that the interpreter had released when he had emptied his bowels wafted towards him.

Beads of sweat had broken out on the German’s face and his whole body was shaking uncontrollably. He knew that he could expect little mercy after they had murdered the man and were preparing to rape the women. He raised himself to his full height, managed to control his shaking for a few seconds and stood at attention. “Dieter Drucker, Private, 24860143.” The German replied.

“Wrong answer, Fritzie.”

The bullets thudded into the interpreter’s belly and he toppled onto his back as dead as a dodo.

The family was still grieving; crying over the body of the murdered man. A husband to the woman and a father to the girls. The man lay on his back with his fingers gripping the handle of the bayonet that had been plunged into his belly so tightly that his knuckles were white. His eyes were wide open and staring. He would not be the last Briton to die defending his family from the raping and pillaging enemy.

“Is there anything that you would like to add to your report, Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn?”

Zorn couldn’t stop his hands from trembling. They seemed to have a life of their own. He was sweating like a pig. “No, sir.”

Schuster sat ramrod straight in his chair and looked at Zorn like a hanging judge about to pass sentence. “Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn, it is to your credit that your account of this incident more or less matches the reports written by your men. That is either a testimony to your honesty or to their loyalty.” He paused. “I suspect that it is a mixture of both. The Fuhrer, the S.S. and I need honest men and more importantly, officers who inspire loyalty in their men. Your men were prepared to fight and die alongside you in hopeless circumstances in order to preserve the honour of the S.S. You recovered your temper and you possessed the clarity of judgment and the presence of mind to make the correct decision. Although you lost face, you saved the lives of your men. Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg has already been to see me and he has made his report. His account of the incident also supports your story.” Schuster paused.

Zorn gulped. His throat felt dry. He was desperately trying to salivate. Here it comes, he thought. The axe is about to fall.

“As you know, Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn, the Army has no jurisdiction over the S.S., or else you would surely face a court martial on the charge of drawing a weapon on a superior office, in other words: mutiny.”

Zorn’s legs were shaking uncontrollably. What deal had Schuster made with von Schnakenberg in order to prevent a scandal? Had he managed to stop the rift between the S.S. and the Wermacht from widening? Or had he been sold down the river?

“I have assured Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg that I will deal with the matter, Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn, and he seems to be satisfied by my assurances.” That was an out and out lie. Von Schnakenberg had made it blatantly clear that he had no confidence in the S.S. judicial system. Schuster knew that von Schnakenberg would have a heart attack when he discovered how Zorn had been punished. “We cannot afford to have bad blood between the S.S. and the Army in Hereward, Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn. It is therefore necessary to make an example of you.”

Zorn held his breath. This was it. The end. This was the end of his military career and possibly his life as well. He tried to stretch an extra few inches to appear taller. The hangman’s noose would do a better job, he thought grimly.

“With immediate effect, you are reduced in rank from Hauptsturmfuhrer to Obersturmfuhrer and you and your men will be transferred from the Fourth S.S. Regiment to the S.S. Military Police Company until further notice.” Schuster passed sentence. “Have you anything to say?”

“No, sir.” Zorn’s legs were shaking.

“Obersturmfuhrer Zorn,” Schuster said. Zorn grimaced as he heard himself being addressed by his new rank.

“Yes, sir?” Zorn remained rigidly at attention.

“You’ve been given a second chance to redeem yourself. Don’t let me down. Dismissed.”

The boys entered Hereward in the early afternoon and walked through the streets. There was very little evidence of any fighting having taken place. Hereward had been captured more or less intact. Hardly any houses or shops had been damaged. There were no burnt out or bombed to bits buildings. There were no windowless or door less houses. It was if Hereward had been untouched. Suspended in a time warp. Hereward was an island and the tide of war had washed on by. The shops were open and the birds were singing. Housewives wandered along the streets carrying shopping baskets in one hand and holding onto children’s hands in the other. But there were some changes. There were German soldiers everywhere. Manning roadblocks; sandbagged positions; walking around in pairs on patrol, rifles slung on shoulders; strolling around in groups, taking photos of the sights and sounds like typical tourists. A massive swastika flag fluttering from the flagpole above the Town Hall. Housewives shopping, soldiers shopping. But one thing was missing. Young men. Or more accurately, young British men. They were fighting in the Middle East, spiritually rotting in prisoner-of-war camps in Germany or physically rotting on the beaches of Dunkirk or rotting on the fields of Fairfax. The only males left in Hereward were too young, too old, or too unsuitable for military service.