Young Lions Roar (10 page)

Ramón laughed. “El Bonito is widely acknowledged to be the most handsome man in the Battalion!”

El Bonito blushed through his dirty blood and dust-encrusted face. “Shut up, Ramón! I could have you shot!” he joked.

Mendoza laughed and straightened up to a position of attention. “Adios, amigos!”

“Adios!” the two Republicans replied.

“Ramón, I’ll tell mother and father that you’re alive and kicking!”

Ramón nodded. “Juan, give my love to Aurora!”

“Viva España!” both of the brothers chorused.

“Take care, little brother!” Mendoza executed a perfect parade ground salute, and disappeared over the top.

Hospital, Madrid, Spain, September 1938.

“I don’t understand, sir,” Obersturmführer Manfred von Stein said with furrowed brows as he sat up in his hospital bed. “I identified the killer as
Captain Mendoza of the Spanish Foreign Legión…”

“You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Obersturmführer,” the SS Colonel interrupted. “Mendoza is connected directly to Franco. Franco used to be in command of
the Spanish Foreign Legión and he identified Mendoza early on as a rising star and he has followed and furthered Mendoza’s meteoric career path with fatherly interest. Mendoza is the
highest decorated junior officer in the Nationalist forces, and he is also married to a woman who is the daughter of one of the top men in the Falange Party and who is also a close personal friend
of Franco.”

“Christ almighty!” Von Stein swore in frustration.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, sir,” Rottenführer Lothar Kophamel said, “but if I understand you correctly, what you’re saying is that Mendoza is
untouchable?”

The Standartenführer nodded his head. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying, Rottenführer. You are not to take any action against
Mendoza…”

“Even though he murdered my men?” Von Stein interrupted.

“Yes, von Stein!” The SS Colonel exploded in rage at the impertinent interruption. “For the love of God, don’t you understand? The Führer himself has been made aware
of this incident and his express orders are that you are not to take any action against Mendoza; and furthermore you are expressly forbidden from mentioning this incident ever again, whether in
public or in private, upon pain of death. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” the two wounded SS troopers chorused.

“This is the last time that you will ever mention the name Mendoza and if you ever say his name again - whether in company, alone, together, or even in your sleep - I will hear of it and
you will find yourself in front of a firing squad so fast that your feet will not touch the ground. Do I make myself clear?” the SS Colonel thundered.

“Yes, sir!”

“Good. I hope so, gentlemen, for both of your sakes and also for the sake of your families. You realise that the Gestapo will be censoring all of the mail that you send and receive from
now on until doomsday. God forgive you if there is even the slightest hint of anything untoward having occurred here in Spain. Your families will end up in a concentration camp so fast that it will
make their heads spin.”

The two wounded SS troopers gulped.

The Standartenführer reckoned that he had made his point. The blood had drained from the faces of the two stormtroopers as they realised that they had placed their families in serious
harm’s way. The future health and prosperity of their loved ones depended on the men’s ability to ignore the fact that, although a serious injustice had been committed, they were not
permitted to seek vengeance for the murder of their men. “Gentlemen, I know that this is not fair, I know that this is a bitter pill to swallow. Believe me that I would like nothing better
than to provide you with the services of a squad of the meanest, toughest hombres in the SS in order to hunt down and execute this Mendoza bastard, but I can’t. The Führer has expressly
forbidden it. This War is bigger than me, and it is bigger than you. We will need the goodwill, support and possibly alliance of Spain in the coming war against our enemies, and nothing and no one
will be allowed to jeopardise that relationship, even the cold-blooded massacre of our men by a treacherous Spanish captain. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but that is the world of Real
Politick.”

The two wounded SS troopers nodded slowly. They could not trust themselves to speak.

“Get well soon, men. The Führer needs all of her sons fit and ready for the forthcoming struggle. ”

“Thank you, sir.”

The SS Colonel headed for the door. “Oh and one more thing, boys. If I hear even a whisper of the name Mendoza any time in the foreseeable future I will track you down and kill you myself.
Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir,” von Stein replied.

“Good.” The Standartenführer smiled. “I’m glad that we understand each other. And then I will track down and kill your parents, your wives and girlfriends, your
children, your friends and anyone who has ever met you. I will even kill your pets, boys; and if you doubt my word you only have to mention my name to your SS comrades and they will tell you that
Standartenführer Fritz Herold is a brutal dog and that my word is my bond and I am not to be tested. Comprendes?”

“Yes, Standartenführer.”

“Good.” Herold gave a crocodile smile. “So it ends here: not a peep.” He put a single finger to his lips. “Adios, compadres.”

“Adios, Jefe,” von Stein and Kophamel chorused.

Herold left.

The King Alfred Hotel, Hereward, May 1941

“There he goes, Carlos. After him,” Sergeant Francisco Borghese ordered.

Borghese and Corporal Carlos Ramirez stood up and casually followed Scar Face out of the room as he walked tipsily towards the toilets. They hung back as the German disappeared into the Gents.
The Spaniards quickly looked behind them to check that they were not being followed. They swiftly drew their pistols from their holsters, cocked the weapons, flicked off the safety catch and tucked
the pistols beneath their belts, placing the weapons in the small of their backs.

“Jefe?” Ramirez pointed at a sign.

Borghese smiled and nodded. “Bueno.”

Ramirez picked up the “Out of order” sign and placed it on the toilet door handle. Borghese swung the door open and stepped inside the Gents, followed closely by Ramirez.

“Where the hell is he?” Borghese asked in frustration. The German was nowhere to be seen.

“Good evening, gentlemen. Have you come to join the party?” a voice asked good-naturedly in German.

The Spaniards looked towards the end of the toilets. Five assorted SS Non Commissioned Officers stood in a circle, having a chat.

“It looks like a God damned town hall meeting,” Ramirez hissed out of the corner of this breath. “What do we do now, Jefe?”

“Follow my lead, Carlos,” Borghese whispered. “Buenas noches, señor. Lo siento, no entiendo.” Borghese bowed graciously.

“What did he say?” one of the SS NCOs asked.

“He said that he doesn’t understand,” the first stormtrooper replied.

“Stupid Spanish bastards,” another NCO sneered. “We had to hold their hands and teach them how to tie their shoelaces and wipe their arses in Spain.”

The other stormtroopers laughed.

“The Nationalists wouldn’t have stood a chance against the Reds without our help,” the same NCO continued.

“Imagine coming to England without being able to speak German?” another stormtrooper added. “I bet the stupid bastards don’t know how to speak English either. German will
soon become the official language of Spain unless Franco pulls his finger out of his arse and starts doing as the Führer tells him.”

The other NCO s all laughed.

Borghese coughed. “Gentlemen, remember that I told you that I don’t understand German?”

“Yes…” the first stormtrooper replied with a confused look on his face as he realised that the words were German.

“Well, I lied…”

The blood drained from the NCO’s face. “ No…!”

“Viva la Legión! Viva España!”

Borghese and Ramirez whipped their pistols out from under their jackets and fired the entire clip of rounds at virtually point-blank range into the startled Nazis. The Germans collapsed in a
bloody heap on the floor.

“Magazine!” both of the Spaniards shouted in unison to warn their companion that they had run out of rounds. They reached into their pockets to find another fresh magazine.

At that precise moment Scar Face burst through the cubicle door like a battering ram, executed a perfect forward roll and recovered into a crouching position, firing his Luger 9 millimetre
pistol as he manoeuvred. The first two rounds blew off the top of Ramirez’s head, the second two rounds missed, and the third two rounds thudded into Borghese’s stomach.

Scar Face stood up and, still breathing heavily, stood in triumph over Borghese. The Spaniard clutched his stomach as he lay in the foetal position, vainly trying to staunch the flow of blood
through his rapidly weakening fingers.

“Scar Face…” Borghese smiled through his gritted teeth.

“Rottenführer Lothar Kophamel of the 4
^th
SS Infantry Regiment, at your service.” Kophamel bowed.

“I… I wondered what your name was… and now I know,” Borghese said as he coughed up a globule of blood.

“And I don’t know your name.”

“Sergeant Francisco Borghese of the XVII Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión,” he hissed though pain-filled lips.

Kophamel shook his head “You stupid bastard, Borghese. I was onto you as soon as you spoke Spanish. You should have kept your mouth shut.”

“My friends always tell me that I talk too much…” Borghese joked at his own expense.

“And here you lie with your guts falling out and your blood flowing out onto a cold English toilet floor…”

“We all have to die, Kophamel. I would rather die here with my face to the enemy than in my bed, drowning in a sea of my own shit.”

“Spare me the sentimental bullshit, Borghese. Believe me; I’ve heard it all before.” Kophamel shook his head dismissively. “Why did you and Billy the Kid here try to kill
me?” Kophamel asked.

Borghese spat out a globule of blood that landed on Kophamel’s shoe. The Nazi kicked the Spaniard in the stomach as if he was kicking a football, and Borghese moaned in pain.

“It doesn’t matter, Borghese. I already know: Mendoza ordered you to kill me, didn’t he?”

Kophamel saw a flicker of fear in Borghese’s eyes.

“Ah yes, Sergeant. I can see that it’s true. Mendoza did send you to kill me.”

“It’s Major Mendoza to you, you murdering Nazi bastard!”

Borghese suffered another painful kick to the stomach as a reward for his defiance.

Kophamel tutted and shook his head slowly. “You know, it’s a crying shame that you tried to kill me, because when I discovered that Major Mendoza was the Spanish Military
Attaché in Hereward I told Hauptsturmführer von Stein. However, he didn’t want to exact any revenge because he’s a bit of a soft touch. He was all for letting sleeping dogs
lie. But I’m afraid that now you have left me with little choice but to kill Mendoza and his daughter.”

Kophamel was pleased to see Borghese stiffen at the mention of Mendoza’s daughter.

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she? Aurora, isn’t it? Shame to let such a pretty girl go to waste. I’ll probably have some fun with her first before I throw her to the
wolves. Some of my men are not double veterans yet.”

Borghese suddenly started laughing, which was the exact opposite reaction to the one that Kophamel had expected.

“What are you laughing about, Borghese? You are about to die.”

“So are you, Kophamel…” Borghese smiled.

“What… what do you mean?”

“Look inside the briefcase…”

Kophamel opened the briefcase that Borghese had been carrying. The blood drained rapidly from the Nazi’s face. “Oh shit.”

The massive explosion instantly killed Kophamel and the dying Borghese, and ripped apart Ramirez and the bodies of the five SS stormtroopers. The force of the blast was so
powerful that it destroyed the concrete pillars in the toilets that supported the three floors above. The rooms situated directly above the toilets plummeted to the ground in a massive cloud of
smoke and dust, and the impact killed and wounded the occupants of the dozen or so bedrooms.

“I’m glad to see that you’re alive and kicking and in one piece, Hauptwachtmeister Bratge,” General-Major Christian von Schnakenberg said with a smile
as he welcomed Bratge into his office.

“Well, I’m alive, sir, but I’m not so sure about kicking,” Sergeant Major Jakob Bratge replied jovially.

“So, Hauptwachtmeister, what’s your appreciation of the King Alfred Hotel incident?” von Schnakenberg asked as he steepled his fingers on his desk.

“Well, sir, the Fire Brigade said that the explosion was caused by a bomb, and their conclusion has been confirmed by our own Army engineers.”

“No attempt to blame the deaths on faulty wiring this time?”

“No, sir. Not this time.” Bratge shook his head.

“Casualties?”

“The hospital took delivery of twelve casualties, sir. The bodies of two SS officers, one Army officer, one Navy officer and four women. One SS officer, one Army officer and two women were
wounded and are presently in Intensive Care. It’s touch and go whether they’ll make it or not, sir.”

“Six dead and another six who may well also die,” von Schnakenberg said grimly. “Quite a butcher’s bill. Anything else that I should know about?”

“Yes, sir.” Bratge nodded his head. “Our sources have informed us that another six SS NCOs are missing and their bodies have not been found.”

Von Schnakenberg did not delve any further into the identity of “our sources”. He knew that there were Army spies buried deep in the SS, just as he was fully aware that their
brothers in arms also had spies in the Army and most probably in his own Brigade.

“The missing men were in the hotel?”

“Yes, sir. Our sources report that at the moment of the explosion they were all in the toilet.”

“In the toilet?” Von Schnakenberg asked incredulously. “All at the same time? What were they all doing? I know that the SS are great fans of the Spartans, but is this not
taking their love of all things Greek a bit far?”