Young Lions (17 page)

Sam’s head was thumping as he walked along the street and it was not just because of the cold. Ulrich’s men had given him a good going over the night before and had left him with a nasty headache. Although it had largely gone away, he was still not feeling 100%. However, he had insisted on coming out on patrol.

Chief Inspector Brown had ordered the patrols to be beefed up in response to the German threat to execute the hostages. Brown had decided that the only way to prevent the Germans from murdering the men and women was to capture any terrorists still at large. Instead of a patrol consisting of one Policeman and one Special, each patrol was now made up of one Policeman and three Specials.

Sam looked to his left and felt Alan’s reassuring presence. A few yards in front of the pair walked Bill Linsdell, another sixteen year old Special and a fellow student at St. John’s. The patrol commander, P.C. Alf “Jock” MacDonald, a regular Police officer, walked to Bill’s right. All four men walked along the street with revolvers drawn. They were not going to be caught unawares like poor Hitchy was last night. They were determined to deal with the criminals and take them dead or alive.

The S.S. Officer and driver sat in silence as the lorry traveled through the dark streets of Hereward. The prisoners sitting in the back of the lorry were singing songs at the top of their voices and were becoming drunk and disorderly at a rapid rate of knots.

The prisoners were the flotsam and jetsam of the defeated French Army that had washed up on the southern shores of England following the “miracle” of Dunkirk and they were united by one overwhelming desire: the desire to return to France. Although prior to the Invasion their accommodation had been far from luxurious, their living quarters had at least been above ground level and they had been allowed to go to the toilet and wash themselves without having to ask for permission and without being accompanied by an armed escort. Unfortunately, Hereward had experienced a rather dramatic change of management. Their new German hosts were not quite as hospitable as the original owners.

Not all of the French soldiers intended to return to France to demob and resume the life of a civilian.

Captain Vincent Berraud and Sergeant Davide Renaud of the French Foreign Legion had not touched a drop of wine. They had originally escaped to England with the intention of joining the Free French Forces of General De Gaulle. Unfortunately, the successful Boche invasion and occupation of England had put their plans on hold somewhat. Following their capture in Hereward, they had thought of escaping to Scotland, but now they decided that the best way to liberate France was to return to the Patrie and join the Resistance.

Berraud took a puff from his cigarette and spoke quietly to Renaud. “I don’t like it, Davide. It’s not like the Boche to be so generous.”

“But what about the news? It is possible that Petain has made a deal to obtain the release and repatriation of all prisoners of war,” Renaud reasoned.

“It’s possible. I wouldn’t put it past that dirty traitor to make a deal.” He spat on the floor in disgust. “Whatever happens, Davide: stick closely to me and follow my lead,” Berraud ordered grimly.

Renaud nodded his head in the darkness.

The lorry gradually slowed to a halt. The French soldiers who had been standing up were thrown off their feet and landed on their comrades who had been sitting on the benches. There was much good natured swearing and banter.

The S.S. Obersturmfuhrer appeared again at the tailgate. “We’re stopping here for five minutes to allow you to stretch your legs. Everybody out!”

The French soldiers piled out of the lorry laughing and joking around in obvious high spirits at the thought of finally returning home.

The driver remained in the cab. One storm trooper stood at the back of the lorry.

The officer walked up to him and whispered in his ear. Berraud watched as the S.S. officer turned around and headed back towards the driving compartment. The S.S. trooper followed him. The Frenchman saw the officer slap the driver’s door twice.

Realization suddenly dawned. “Take cover!” Berraud warned.

The loud blare of the lorry’s horn shattered the night’s silence. Machine gun bullets tore through the air cutting down half of the unarmed prisoners in the first burst. The surviving Frenchmen did not know where to run and were caught in the glare of the lorry’s lights like frightened rabbits. The alcohol had served its purpose by dulling their senses and reaction times. Most of the defenseless men died before they realized that their lives were in danger.

Berraud grabbed Renaud by the lapels of his greatcoat. “Run!” He screamed in Renaud’s ear.

“Where?”

“Anywhere away from here!” Berraud turned around and saw the S.S. officer. He was holding his right arm awkwardly. “That way!” Berraud charged towards the German like an angry bull and lowered his shoulder. He caught the Nazi in his solar plexus and brought his knee up into the man’s stomach for good measure driving the air from the S.S. man’s lungs. The German fell backwards, striking his skull on the pavement with a loud crack.

Renaud didn’t break his stride and scooped up the S.S. officer’s Luger pistol from his limp fingers.

“Come on!” Berraud shouted over his shoulder. They ran towards the front of the lorry and raced past it. Renaud twisted around and fired two shots at the lorry shattering one headlamp, missing the other, but forcing the driver to duck.

The driver swore loudly as he watched the two escaping prisoners disappearing around the corner. He grabbed his Schmeisser machine gun from under his seat and jumped out of the cab. He ignored the inert form of his platoon commander lying on the ground and took off in hot pursuit of the Frenchmen.

“Come on!” Sam shouted as he heard the first shots.

“Which way do we go?” Alan asked.

“Towards the sound of the guns!” Sam answered excitedly. “Come on!” He repeated. Sam raced off towards the gunfire, with Alan and the other Special, Bill Linsdell, following hot on his heels.

“For God’s sake, slow down!” P.C. MacDonald shouted after them as he struggled to keep up.

The driver saw the prisoners in the distance. “Halt!” He ordered as he fired a short burst over their heads.

Renaud stopped and fired two shots towards the sound of the firing.

The bullets whistled over the S.S. trooper’s head like angry hornets.

“My God! They’re armed!” The Nazi was shocked. He stopped and fired two controlled bursts at the prisoners.

Renaud grunted and fell onto his front. “Vincent…” he croaked through pain clenched teeth. Berraud ran on for a few more steps before he realized that Renaud was not running alongside him. He turned around. Renaud was lying face down in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. “Davide!” He shouted as he ran towards him. “Where are you hit?” he asked urgently.

“In my… in my back…” Renaud gasped.

“Get up,” Berraud urged.

“I’m not going to make it.” A burst of machine gun fire tore through the night.

“Sergeant Renaud, get up! That’s an order!”

“Vincent…” Renaud wrapped a bloody hand around Berraud’s wrist. “Listen to me…,” he whispered. “I’m not going to make it…” Another burst of bullets.

“Come on. I’ll help you.” Berraud tried to loop his arms under his friend’s armpits. He caught a glimpse of Renaud’s back. It looked as if someone had scrapped a giant cheese grater down its entire length. It was torn, shredded and bleeding. Renaud must have taken the full force of bullets in the back at a distance of less than one hundred yards. He gently lowered his friend to the ground. Renaud was not going anywhere.

“Vincent…I’m finished… he’s right behind us…” Renaud’s fingers tightened into a vice like grip. “Save yourself…” He placed the Luger into Berraud’s sweaty palm. The pistol grip was warm and sticky with his blood.

Berraud looked down the road from where he had come. He could hear the German running towards him. He wrapped Renaud’s hand in his own. It was rapidly growing cold. “Farewell my friend.” He squeezed Renaud’s blood soaked fingers. “I’ll see you in the next life.”

“In…the…next…life…” Renaud’s teeth shone white in the darkness.

By the time the German reached him he was dead.

“There! Look!” Sam pointed at a figure flashing a torchlight and kicking something on the ground. The figure turned at the sound of Sam’s voice and fired off a burst of bullets. Bill Linsdell fell to the ground. His hands clutched his throat in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood pumping from his neck.

“Alan! Help him!” Sam ordered. He fired two rounds towards the figure. Alan turned around and crawled towards Linsdell. He was making strangled gurgling noises as his blood and his life seeped out of him.

Jock MacDonald reached Linsdell before Alan. “I’ll help Bill,” he shouted above the sound of the gunfire, “you sort that bastard out.” He pointed down the street.

But the figure was already down. “Cover me!” Sam shouted. He ran a few yards towards the fallen figure and then dropped to one knee pointing his revolver down the street. Alan ran down the street as Sam provided cover. The boys leapfrogged each other until they reached the figure. Correction. Two figures. One lying on his back with a bullet hole in his chest where his heart was. German and very dead. The other figure lay on his front. Nationality unknown. But shabbily dressed. Wearing some type of uniform. British? Possibly.

“What the hell’s going on?” Alan asked, picking up the dead German’s helmet.

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, picking up the Schmeisser. “We’ll soon find out. I have a cunning plan.” His eyes twinkled mischievously in the moonlight.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn shouted at the top of his voice. The gunfire gradually died out. “Scharfuhrer Schmitt. Check the dead,” he ordered. Schmitt and a couple of men wandered amongst the dead and dying Frenchmen, administering a coup de grace, a bullet to the nape of the neck, to those still breathing. “Rottenfuhrer Zimmermann, grab the gear from the lorry.” Zimmermann walked to the back of the lorry that had carried the Killing Group to the ambush site. Two S.S. troopers inside the lorry started to pass out a selection of jerry cans, hosepipes, empty bottles and weapons.

“Spread them around.” Zorn ordered. The soldiers began to randomly place the equipment around the still warm bodies of the dead Frenchmen. “A job well done, boys,” Zorn congratulated his men, rubbing his hands together in glee. “There’ll be medals and promotions all around, I promise you.” Zorn could sense that his men were smiling. “Where’s Obersturmfuhrer Ulrich?” He asked another S.S. trooper.

“I don’t know, sir,” Brandt replied. “I haven’t seen him since the shooting started.”

Zorn’s eyebrows narrowed in puzzlement.

“Sir,” Zimmermann said, “what do you want me to do with the left over weapons?” He held up a rifle in each of his hands.

“What do you mean?”

“There are twelve weapons, sir, but only ten bodies.” Zimmermann pointed at the dead Frenchmen.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, sir. I’ve counted them twice.”

Zorn scratched his head. “Twelve weapons and only ten bodies. Plus one of my Obersturmfuhrers is missing.” He swore under his breath. “This is not a good sign.”

“He’s probably with Mueller, sir,” Brandt suggested.

“Who the hell is Mueller?”

“The lorry driver. Ah, here comes Obersturmfuhrer Ulrich now, sir.” He pointed up the street towards two figures walking towards them. The one in front had his hands placed on top of his head in the universal gesture of surrender. The one behind was holding a Schmeisser machine gun and was prodding the man in front of him repeatedly. He appeared to be trying to drill a hole in his back.

“Obersturmfuhrer Ulrich,” Brandt asked. “Where’s the other prisoner, sir? And where’s Mueller?”

Brandt was answered by a burst of machine gun fire that cut a neat line of holes across his chest. He fell backwards with a grunt trapping Zorn, who had been standing immediately behind him, onto the road. The next burst cut down Zimmermann and the two soldiers standing next to him. A potato masher grenade sailed through the air from where it had been hiding behind the head of the ‘prisoner’ and landed in the middle of the massacred and murdered Frenchmen. The explosion sent shrapnel flying into the face of Scharfuhrer Schmitt who had just completed finishing off the wounded prisoners. The grenade blast punctured several jerry cans that had been lying nearby. They caught fire and exploded and covered another two Germans in fiery fuel. The ‘prisoner’ fired shots from his revolver at the Nazis as they collapsed screaming, smoking and burning onto the road. The ‘machine gunner’ fired another couple of bursts into the back of the Killing Group’s lorry catching the two S.S. troopers who had passed Zimmermann the equipment in the chest. The ‘prisoner’ threw in another grenade for good measure. The Nazis were dead before they had time to unsling their weapons.

Sam quickly changed his empty magazine for a full one as he surveyed the scene of complete and utter death and destruction that he had helped to create. He moved amongst the dead and dying Germans and fired a short burst into the chests of any that showed signs of life. Alan picked up a Schmeisser and joined in with Sam liberally spraying the bodies with bullets.

“Christ…” Alan was disgusted, “What a bloody mess.”

“Bloody hell, boys! What have you done?”

“Damn!” Sam swore. “Here comes the cavalry. Late as usual.”

“More like the Keystone Cops. P.C. MacDonald, how good of you to join us!”

“What the hell happened here?” MacDonald’s eyes bulged wide with disbelief. He had not seen so many corpses and so much carnage since the Somme.

“One heck of a gunfight, Jock, one heck of a gunfight…” Alan answered. “ They were like this when we got here.”

“But I don’t know who came off worse-the Jerries or the other mob,” Sam added.

“The other mob?” MacDonald said. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know,” Sam shook his head. “They don’t appear to be British. They’re not wearing British uniform.”