Young Lions (31 page)

Another explosion. This time on target. The burning wreckage of the half-track burst through a cloud of smoke and gradually rolled to a stop. Several charcoal bodies lay draped lifelessly over the side. There were no survivors. Sam slowly stood to his feet and brushed the dirt and grass from his uniform.

“Christ, Sam. That was a close call.” Alan’s head peered from the armoured car turret.

“Good shooting, old boy,” Sam said.

“Thank you.” Alan smiled as he jumped to the ground. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Grant. Did you see Al’s shooting?” Sam asked. But Smith didn’t answer. He would never answer another question again. He lay on top of his machine gun without moving. He looked so peaceful. As if he was taking a nap. But he would never wake up again.

Chapter Twenty Five
 

Mason shivered. The morgue was absolutely freezing. Or was it something else that made him shiver. Fear? He looked at the two naked and bloody, bullet-ridden bodies lying on the slabs. So it had come to this, he thought. The Resistance had actually started to deliberately target policemen. Britons had begun to kill Britons. The Resistance executing policemen as traitors. Mason sighed. The fratricide had begun. A new civil war. And this one promised to be as long and as bitter as the last one three hundred years before.

An S.S. patrol had found MacDonald and Smith lying beside the road. Their lorry was missing. No doubt it had been hijacked. The Germans had themselves been searching for an armoured car and half-track patrol which had failed to report in. They had found the dead policemen with a note underneath MacDonald’s body. It simply said: ‘Traitor.’ The S.S. had found the burnt out wreck of the A.P.C. south of Hereward. It contained the charred remains of its crew. There was still no sign of the missing armoured car. This was not a good omen. Especially the day before the Royal Visit.

“Are we all set?”

“Yes, we are.,” Rathdowne replied. “The convoy will leave London at 9 a.m. and it’s due to arrive in Hereward at 12.30 p.m. the parade and medal ceremony will take half an hour and then lunch will be served at one o’clock. The King and Queen, Reichsstatthalter Schweimann and Mosley will have lunch with Brigadefuhreur Schuster and his senior officers, Superintendent Brown, Chief Inspector Mason and senior Police and Specials Officers in the Cathedral Hall.”

“Good,” Captain Berreud said. “So, no changes to the plan.”

“As far as we know,” Rathdowne confirmed.

Berreud nodded. “We’ll hit them between Ely and Hereward between noon and half past twelve.” He patted the bonnet of his recently captured armoured car. Berreud looked at his commandos making final preparations in the barn. They were ready. Berreud and his men had spent the last few days planning and preparing in a barn on the grounds of Rathdowne’s Family Estate, ‘Woodend.’

Berreud turned to look at Rathdowne. “If anything goes wrong, we’ll try and make it back here. Woodend will be the rendezvous point.”

“Yes,” Rathdowne said. “Contact Arthur on the radio. He’ll get word to me.” He stood up to leave. “You should get a good night’s sleep. It will be a big day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Berreud agreed. “For all of us.” He thrust out his hand. “Thanks for everything, Merlin.”

“Avec pleasir, mon Capitaine,” Rathdowne said. “Bon chance et vive la France!”

Berreud saluted. “Good luck to you, my friend and God save the King.”

King Edward VIII, formerly the Duke of Windsor, sat in the back of the Rolls Royce with his wife, Queen Wallis.

“Don’t worry, darling,” she pat Edward’s hand, “we’re doing the right thing. You’ll see. Just think, a year ago you were the Governor of Bermuda and look at you now? The true and rightful King of England! We’re back where we belong!”

Edward smiled bitterly. “Perhaps I was foolish and naive. I wanted to do an important job so I allowed Churchill to convince me that my appointment as Governor of Bermuda WAS an important job. But now I know the truth.” Edward shook his head sadly.

“Churchill never gave you permission to leave Bermuda to carry out your role as a link between the U.K. and the U.S. I see the hand of your dear brother, George, behind Churchill’s decisions, my love.”

“I only wanted to help, my dear, but the powers that be wouldn’t let me. They have blocked my wishes on every occasion,” Edward said as he punched his thigh with his fist in frustration. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered the faces of friends and family who were buried in Flanders fields. He thought of his sister-in-law Queen Elizabeth, the “other” Queen, whose brother, Fergus, was killed in the Battle of Loos. Edward envied him. “All I’ve ever wanted is to serve my country on the field of battle and die with honour if necessary.”

“The powers that be decided that you could not marry me and continue to be king. Your countrymen turned their backs on you, darling. After all that you had done for them. After all of your attempts to help your people during the Depression.” Wallis spoke to Edward in the same tone that mothers use to speak to their young children. “After all of your attempts to avert war.”

“If there are enough men of good will on both sides then it should always be possible to come to some sort of a compromise,” Edward said reasonably. “I was banished to Bermuda because I dared to speak my mind,” he continued bitterly.

“You were the only man in England with the courage to do so, my love,” Wallis interrupted.

“The Fuhrer built Germany brick by brick, from the ashes. The New Germany was like a Phoenix reborn.” Edward said with admiration. “Herr Hitler assured me that he displayed no hostile intentions towards the British Empire. On the contrary, he saw the Empire as a force for stability. ‘Leave us Europe and we’ll leave you the rest of the world,’ he had offered. What could be fairer than that? The Fuhrer was confident that we could smooth over any potential areas of conflict or friction.”

Edward was debating the endless motion: that the ends justify the means. The end being the preservation of the Empire. Wallis knew that a misguided minority of her husband’s countrymen considered Edward’s ‘means’ to be nothing less than bare faced treason. They called him the Anti-King, the Puppet King, the German King, Kaiser Eddie. She knew that if the words hurt her, then the slurs and accusations, the insults and the cruel nicknames were tearing Edward apart.

“I know in my heart of hearts that we are doing the right thing, my dear. Britain has to seek and ensure her rightful place in the sun beside Germany in the front rank of the New Order. We have to follow the example of France, under the benevolent leadership of Marshal Petain. Britain has to take the defeat square on the chin and learn from her mistakes,” Edward continued. “Unlike the Jew Shylock, Hitler has not demanded his pound of flesh. Britain has to demonstrate her gratitude by joining Germany and France in the coming Crusade against Bolshevik Russia.” Edward stated the Government of National Unity’s party line, “Everyone agrees that a final showdown with the Soviet Union is inevitable and we have to be in it to show our commitment and support for the New Order and that is why it is of vital importance to our national interest that we raise a British S.S. St. George Division to fight alongside our German brothers in the coming conflict.”

Wallis looked up at her husband with eyes tear stained with pride and emotion. It was exhilarating to hear the steel and conviction return to Edward’s voice.

“Yes, my dear,” Edward said with new found vitality in his voice. “We are doing the right thing. We’re doing the right thing for Britain; we’re doing the right thing for the Empire and the right thing for the world. In the spring, we will invade Scotland. We will deal with Churchill, our misguided Celtic brethren and the rest of his warmongering Jewish-Bolshevik clique. And George, my dear brother, I will deal with you as well, for we both know that, as Genghis Khan said, there can be only one sun in the sky.”

“Armoured car and half track approaching, sir,” the A.P.C. driver said.

“Army?” The half-track commander asked.

“No, sir, S.S.”

“S.S?” The commander said. “What the hell is the S.S. doing here? This is an Army operation. They don’t take over until we get to Hereward.” He looked at the vehicles behind and in front of him traveling in convoy. “Hippel, get the S.S. armoured car on the radio.”

“Yes, sir,” Hippel, the radio operator replied. “Sir?”

“Yes, what is it?” The commander asked impatiently. The S.S. armoured car was fast approaching.

“We don’t have the S.S. frequency, sir.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” The commander swore. “What a bloody balls up! Get me Standartenfuhrer Dahrendorf!”

“Sir, Hauptsturmfuhrer von Pfuhlstein on the radio.” The radio operator passed the headset to Standartenfuhrer Dahrendorf.

“Hallo Eagle two, this is Eagle one. Message, over,” von Pfuhlstein said.

“Eagle one, this is Eagle two. Send, over.” Dahrendorf replied.

“Eagle two, unidentified S.S. armoured car and half track approaching. What are your orders, over?”

“Eagle one, establish contact. Verify identification and find out purpose of mission. S.S. frequency is as follows…”

“Sir, you’re on the S.S. frequency.” The radio operator handed the head set to von Pfuhlstein.

“Hallo, unidentified S.S. armoured car, this is Eagle one. Message, over.”

“Hallo Eagle one, this is Josephine one. Send, over.”

“Josephine one, explain purpose of your mission, over.”

“Eagle one, we are the Hereward Welcoming Committee, over.”

Von Pfuhlstein smiled and breathed out a sigh of relief. Who said that the S.S. did not have a sense of humour! A welcoming committee indeed! There was something else, though. Josephine one’s accent. He spoke German strangely. From Alsace-Lorraine, perhaps. Von Pfuhlstein’s brows furrowed. Something was niggling him, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Not Alsace-Lorraine, France! Von Pfuhlstein grabbed the headset.

The cannon shell ripped the turret from the Army armoured car at the front of the convoy.

Von Pfuhlstein dropped the head set as his half-track crashed into the back of the armoured car wreck. He fell forwards as the lorry traveling behind him ploughed into his A.P.C.’s rear. My God, he thought. We’re trapped. “Everybody out!” he bellowed. Von Pfuhlstein looked down into the driver’s cab. The driver was dead. He lay slumped over his steering wheel. Von Pfuhlstein and his men piled over the sides of the half-track.

The S.S. armoured car gunner lined up his cannon on the group of German soldiers leaping over the sides of the A.P.C. The gunner pressed the trigger. Bullets leapt out of the barrel of his machine gun and cut down the debussing troops.

“What the hell’s going on?” The gunner of the armoured car at the rear of the convoy asked.

“We’re under attack! Spaeter! Contact Dahrendorf!” The armoured car commander ordered. “Kriegsheim! Get us out from behind this half track so that we can find out what’s happening!”

Kriegsheim drove the armoured car out from behind the A.P.C. in front of it.

“Armoured car, twelve o’clock, two hundred yards, fire!” The S.S. Armoured car commander screamed.

“S.S. armoured car to the front-!” Those were the Army armoured car commander’s last words. The S.S. shell hit them straight on and sent deadly slivers of steel shrapnel whizzing around the inside of the crew compartment cutting everyone down before she blew up from the inside out.

“Direct hit, Captain!” The S.S. armoured car gunner announced triumphantly.

“Well done, Hemphill, but don’t get cocky. There are plenty more Boche to take care of,” Berreud said. “Now. Where are the King and Queen?”

“What’s happening?” Dahrendorf demanded.

“Eagle one is under attack, sir,” his radio operator replied.

“Get me the Stuka squadron at Cambridge,” Dahrendorf ordered.

“There they are!” Berreud pointed. “Get the first Staff car! We’re too close! Back up! Back up!”

The driver reversed the armoured car so that Hemphill, the gunner, could get a clearer shot.

Berreud was aware of the armoured car reversing over the bodies of dead and dying Germans. “Fire at will!”

Hemphill squeezed the trigger. The first Staff car disintegrated into a million pieces. “One down, two to go, sir.”

“Five minutes until the Stukas reach the ambush site, sir.”

“Five minutes? They could all be dead in five minutes. Christ!” Dahrendorf swore. “Get the convoy to close up with the Advance Guard.”

Berreud watched as the doors of the second and third Staff cars burst open. What the hell was going on? German soldiers piled out of both cars. Where were the King and Queen? Mon Dieu. A trap! “Hemphill!” He screamed.

“I can’t see them! We’re too close!” Hemphill couldn’t swivel his turret around fast enough to aim at the soldiers.

A German combat engineer dived for cover behind the wreckage of a burning lorry. He crawled on all fours until he was right behind the S.S. armoured car. He counted to ten and caught his breath before leaping out and attaching a lump of plastic explosive to the turret.

“Where are they?” Hemphill shouted.

“I don’t know!” I can’t see them!” Berreud screamed. German soldiers were everywhere. They were nowhere. He couldn’t see anyone from his turret. They had all gone to ground.

The explosion made the whole armoured car shake. Berreud was blown out of the armoured car like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle and landed in a crumpled heap on the ground beside the road. A second explosion blew the armoured car inside out as the first blast triggered off the ammunition.

“Hemphill!” Berreud croaked through a bloody mouth full of broken teeth.

The combat engineer who had successfully destroyed the armoured car spotted Berreud crouching on the ground like a helpless kitten. “Time to finish the job,” he said grimly. He leveled his Schmeisser.