Young Lions (8 page)

“What’s going on?” One of the storm troopers asked.

The S.S. soldier crumpled to the ground as a heavy object crashed into the bridge of his nose. A fountain of bright crimson blood sprayed onto the face of the other S.S. trooper. His legs were kicked out from under him before he could react. That was the signal. Both attackers piled in to their victims, punching and kicking the S.S. troopers in a frenzied and furious assault. They only stopped when the S.S. men stopped struggling.

The two men tied the hands of the S.S. soldiers behind their backs and quickly stripped them. They dragged a small bucket from the alley and prized off the lid. A noxious smell escaped from the bucket. The men turned the unconscious S.S. men onto their backs and spread eagled their legs. They dripped two large paintbrushes into the bucket and put them between the S.S. troopers’ outstretched legs. The S.S. men screamed in pain as the paintbrushes touched their skin. Their tormentors continued to ladle on the liquid despite their victims’ desperate pleas to stop. They only stopped when the S.S. men were completely covered from head to toe and from back to front. Each of the men slit open a pillow and emptied the contents onto the S.S. soldiers. The two men stood above their victims and allowed themselves a savage smile of satisfaction. They turned their backs on the unconscious men and disappeared into the night.

The next morning, the blood splattered body of a young paratrooper was found at the bottom of Hereward Cathedral. His wounds were consistent with those of having fallen from a great height. It appeared that following a night’s drinking at “The King Arthur” pub he had decided to carry out an impromptu sight seeing tour and had climbed the many hundreds of steps to the battlements at the top of the Cathedral tower. He had been slightly the worse for wear and he appeared to have lost his footing as he peered over the parapet and had fallen to his death. Friends and eyewitnesses said that he had left the pub shortly before closing time to urinate outside (the pub’s toilets were out of order) but he had not returned. His paratrooper wings had been ripped from his jacket. It was possible that they had been torn during the fall. Inside his pocket was an “Ace of spades” playing card bearing the skull and crossbones emblem of the Fourth S.S. Infantry Regiment. His friends could not recollect the young para ever having expressed an interest in playing cards and he certainly had not mentioned ever having any friends in the S.S.

“Look at them,” Alan said smugly,” the bastards can barely stand the sight of each other.”

The boys sat on a bench in the Town Square observing a group of half a dozen paratroopers staring at a similarly sized section of S.S. soldiers. The two packs were warily circling each other like two rival gangs of schoolboys in the playground. As Alan and Sam watched an S.S. trooper suddenly lunged across the short gap separating the two groups and punched the closest para in the face sending him flying backwards through the air. A full scale fistfight erupted as the S.S. soldiers and paras piled in. Paratroopers and S.S. troopers who had been strolling across the Square minding their own business witnessed what was going on and quickly decided to make it their business and joined in to help their comrades.

“Christ!” Sam exclaimed, “We really stirred up a hornets’ nest the other night!”

“We set a fox amongst the chickens!” Alan laughed at his own joke and Sam joined in.

The boys heard whistles being blown. “Uh-oh, here come the Keystone cops!” Sam said. S.S. and para Military Policemen were running across the Square, blowing their whistles and drawing their batons. Lorries were driving into the Square and were disgorging their Police reinforcements. Sam noticed that Army M.P.s were making no attempt to become involved and seemed quite content to allow their counterparts in the other two services deal with the situation. And the situation was quickly changing. A minor street scuffle involving a dozen men was rapidly escalating into a major riot involving several hundred. Attempts to break up the fight was not helped by the fact that dozens of Grenadiers and other Army soldiers were standing on the sidelines laughing and shouting, cheering on their champions like a Roman mob watching gladiators in the Colosseum.

Sam and Alan were doubled up laughing. They weren’t the only civilians who found the situation funny. Several groups of people were also standing around the Square pointing and giggling at the sight of their Aryan Overlords scrambling and scrabbling about in the dust and the dirt like common criminals fighting over food scraps.

“Come on, Sam,” Alan grabbed Sam’s blazer as he stood up. “We’d better leave. I’ve got to go to tea.”

“Alright,” Sam wiped away tears of laughter.

Alan turned around. “Oh, hello sir,” he said in surprise.

“Hallo, Alan. Hallo, Sam,” Peter Ansett, Alan’s Housemaster said.

How long had he been standing behind them? Alan asked himself.

“Hallo, sir,” Sam said. How much had he heard?

“Enjoying the entertainment, are we?” Ansett asked.

“Yes, sir,” Alan answered. “It’s better than watching Laurel and Hardy!”

“Before you laugh so much that you wet your trousers, boys,” which only encouraged the boys to laugh some more, “you might take time to remember that you should never laugh at another person’s expense.”

“Even if they’re the enemy?” Sam abruptly stopped laughing.

“Even if they’re the enemy, Sam. Remember, every one of those boys is a mother’s son.”

“Yes, sir.” Who is this man?

The boys were shocked into silence. Mr. Ansett, Sam’s History teacher, Alan’s housemaster – a collaborator?

“Are you going to tea now, Alan?” Ansett asked.

“Yes, sir.” He was too flabbergasted to give more than one syllable answers.

“Then I’ll walk along with you if I may. Goodbye, Sam. See you tomorrow in History.”

Alan did not even acknowledge Sam’s reciprocal farewell and walked home on automatic pilot, lost in his own thoughts with his mind in turmoil. How far had this “live and let live-treat others as you would have them treat you” nonsense spread? How many more people had become infected with this defeatist disease? How many more people had Ansett managed to contaminate through his classes? Was Ansett a passive collaborator or an active traitor pushing and promoting the Nazi view that Britain should take its rightful place alongside her continental brothers in the New European Order? Did Ansett agree with puppet Prime Minister Mosley’s Government of National Unity’s message of peace and reconciliation? Whatever the answer was, however deep Ansett’s treachery ran, he would have to be carefully watched. From now on. Alan would have to be especially careful when he sneaked out of his boarding house in the future. And if the risks became too great then Ansett would have to be cut out like a cancer before his sickness could spread any further.

“I have agreed to hold a Remembrance Day Parade at the request of the Royal British Legion in the interest of Inter-Service Unity and put the bad blood of the past few weeks behind us,” Schuster explained. “A chance to bury the hatchet and smoke the peace pipe. This can be a day of reconciliation between the three services and also a day of reconciliation between the British and German peoples. People without politics remembering our War dead together, praying that THIS war will be the war to end all wars.”

“Masterful, sir,” Zorn said with grudging admiration. Word would get to London if Schuster allowed the parade to take place and if it was successful, word would get to Berlin. Or perhaps Schuster would tell his old comrade in arms, Hitler, himself? This parade could be the prototype for a program of reconciliation between the conquered countries and Germany. Schuster was a wily old fox. It was evident that he wished to extend his interests and influence from the military world into the world of politics. What would happen to old soldiers when the war was over? After all, the war wouldn’t last forever. A man had to start carving out his niche in the post-war world now. When it was all over it would be too late. Schuster would not be content to remain Military Governor of Hereward. But Military Governor of England? Or perhaps even of Britain? Now that would be something. Perhaps Zorn should attach himself to Schuster’s rising star? Zorn asked himself. His thoughts wandered. Brigadefuhreur Zorn, Military Governor of London. He smiled. Yes, that would do nicely, thank you. Or perhaps he should start carving out his own niche?

“Questions, comments, flaws in my masterful plan to take over the world?” Schuster asked.

“One question, sir: how, may I ask, have Generalmajor Wurth and Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg reacted to your proposal?”

“London has ordered them to agree. They have each been ordered to provide a company of troops as a guard of honour and all three of us will present a wreath on behalf of our respective services.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Whilst we’re on the subject, Zorn, what is the current state of play regarding our feud with the Luftwaffe?”

“I would say that it’s rather more than a feud, sir. It’s a blood vendetta in true “Romeo and Juliet” style. Ever since the “Chicken and Egg” incident there have been outbreaks of violence every night. Dozens of men have been injured on both sides and there have even been several deaths.”

“My God. I had no idea that things had got so bad. How has Wurth reacted?”

“He has done absolutely nothing to stop it, sir. In fact, he has encouraged it.”

“And the Army, Zorn?”

“On the surface the Army has remained neutral but under the surface Army sympathies are firmly with the paras.”

“No surprises there, Zorn. Von Schnakenberg and Wurth are as thick as thieves. They’re bound together by class and regimental loyalty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How have the public reacted?”

“The public treat it all as a big joke,” Zorn said bitterly. “Instead of wandering down to the park on a Sunday afternoon to listen to a brass band playing they walk to the Square to watch our boys scrapping with the paras. The Armed Forces as a whole have become a laughing stock. “

“All the more reason to put an end to this nonsense once and for all.” Schuster stood up and slammed a clenched fist into his hand. “We must show the people of Hereward that we are not a mob of undisciplined, uncultured barbarians.” He puffed out his chest like a robin. “We are members of the greatest civilization that the world has ever seen!”

“Your ankle seems to have made a full discovery,” Ansett said as he walked alongside Alan.

“Sir?” Alan was confused.

“Your ankle,” Ansett pointed.

“Oh yes, sir, my ankle,” Alan laughed uneasily. He stopped and leant on a lamppost as he stretched and flexed it. “As good as gold, sir. Although it can be a little stiff after I’ve done anything physical.” Such as killing Germans, you no good, low down, dirty, Hun loving traitor. Where were you when the shooting started and what were were you doing? Dusting down your welcoming mat and hanging out your swastika?

Alan started walking again.

Ansett remained where he was. “Alan.”

“Yes, sir?” He stopped.

“You can give up your charade.”

“Sir?” Alarm bells started to ring in his head.

“You can give up your charade about your ankle.”

Alan started walking again, speeding up, “I’m afraid that I don’t understand, sir.” A bead of sweat ran down his cheek.

Ansett caught up with him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I talked to Mr. Mason, or Captain Mason, your company commander. He said that both you and Sam fought bravely at Wake and Fairfax.”

Alan clenched his fists as he desperately tried to fight off a rising tide of panic that threatened to engulf him. “He must’ve have mistaken me for someone else.” He shrugged off Ansett’s hand and kept walking.

“Alan, he’s known you for two years in the Officer Training Corps, he taught you German last year and he teaches Sam this year. He hasn’t made any mistake.” Ansett said matter of factly.

Alan stopped walking. Can I trust you? His Luger pistol was pressing uncomfortably against his crotch where he had hidden it down his trousers. Both Sam and he had agreed to be armed at all times. They had been deadly serious when they had sworn that they would rather die fighting than be captured alive. “Alright, we both fought at Wake and Fairfax. So what?” Alan was rapidly losing his temper despite knowing that he had to keep his wits about him. Have you sold your soul to the Devil, Ansett? Are you a traitor? Am I going to have to start killing my own people?

“The War is not over.”

“What?”

“You’re not alone.”

Alan’s legs seemed to turn to rubber. His energy seeped out of him like air escaping from a punctured balloon. He sat down on a wall to gather his thoughts and regain his strength. Can I trust you? Is the Luger loaded? Is it made ready? Is there a round already up the spout? Can I squeeze off a round and kill you, you treacherous bastard, before you can call your Jerry friends? Too dazed and confused to think straight. I must think. I need time to think. What to say? What to do?

“What do you want from me?” Alan asked.

“Are you ready to pick up the gauntlet again?”

“What about all of that ‘laughing at another’s person’s expense’ in the square rubbish?”

“A smokescreen.”

A pretty damned effective one, Alan thought.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

You have absolutely no idea what I’m capable of. What I’ve seen. What I’ve done. You’d run a mile and you wouldn’t stop to look back. “You didn’t join up. You were in the last War, you were Mentioned in Dispatches for God’s sake, you were in the last War and you didn’t join up for this one.” The words tumbled out as soon as the thoughts entered his head.

“I had reasons for that. I can explain.”

“How?” Alan stood with his hands on his hips.

“In fact, I can do better than that. I can show you. I can prove it to you.”

Alan could almost taste and touch Ansett’s desperate desire to be believed. His yearning urge to be trusted again as one of the good guys. “When?”

“Tomorrow. Come to my classroom after school.”