Young Lions Roar (12 page)

“I know, Jefe,” Private Alfonso de Cervantes replied. “What are we going to do? Do we fight, or do we flee?”

Pizarro looked at de Cervantes as if the private had just insulted his mother. “We’re Legiónaries, Alfonso. We always fight and we never flee. I would have thought that after
five years in the Legión you would know that by now.”

“It was a rhetorical question, Jefe.”

“I don’t give a damn if it was rhetorical, Miguel: it was stupid.” Pizarro’s eyes expertly scanned the ground around him. “Quick. In here,” he ordered.

De Cervantes followed him into the narrow alleyway.

“Silencers,” Pizarro instructed as he drew his pistol from the small of his back and screwed on the silencer attachment. De Cervantes did the same.

“Ready, Miguel?” Pizarro asked.

“I was born ready, Jefe.”

“Bueno.” Pizarro nodded “Then let’s do this and then get the hell out of Hereward.”

“Viva la Legión! Viva España!” De Cervantes answered.

“Where the hell are they?” Hans asked in surprise as the two MPs rounded the corner. The Spaniards were nowhere to be seen.

“Quick,” Christian replied. “Let’s pick up the pace. They can’t be too far ahead.” He drew his pistol from his holster as he started to walk faster. Hans did
the same.

As they walked past a narrow alley, the two Spaniards quickly stepped out and shot the two MPs in the back at virtually point-blank range. The Germans were dead before their bodies hit the
ground. The Legiónaries fired another two rounds into the back of their heads to make doubly sure that the MPs were dead. They then dragged the two bodies into the depths of the narrow alley
and dumped them in the corner, unscrewed their silencers, replaced their pistols, and left without saying a word.

“Sturmbannführer Ulrich, why is the Army searching for two Spaniards on the loose in Hereward?” Brigadeführer Herold asked, as he leaned on his desk with
steepled fingers.

Ulrich’s raised eyebrows betrayed his shock at Herold’s question. “I didn’t… I didn’t know that you knew about that, sir. How did you…?”

Herold waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t look so surprised, Ulrich: I have my sources, just as you have yours. Why is the Army searching for two Spaniards?”

“The Army thinks that these two Spaniards are responsible for the bomb explosion at the King Alfred Hotel, sir,” Ulrich answered.

Now it was time for Herold to raise his eyebrows in surprise. “The Army thinks that the Spanish bombed the hotel? I thought that we and the Spanish were friends. After all that we’ve
done for them? The ungrateful bastards!” Herold shook his head.

“No, sir. Not the Spanish, but two Spaniards,” Ulrich answered. “There is a significant difference, sir.”

“So the Wehrmacht thinks that this might be a bomb attack which was carried out by Republican die-hards who escaped to Britain during or after the Civil War?”

Ulrich nodded. “I assume so, sir.”

Herold wagged his index finger at Ulrich. “Don’t assume anything, Ulrich.” Herold thought for a moment before continuing. “What are the names and ranks of our men who
were killed in the bomb attack, Sturmbannführer?”

Ulrich looked at the list of names in his hand. “Hauptsturmführer Abetz, Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann, Obersturmführer Bayerlein…”

“Wait a minute, Ulrich,” Herold interrupted. “I thought that only two SS officers were killed in the attack?”

Ulrich glanced down at this notes and nodded. “Hauptsturmführer Zimmermann died of his wounds this morning, sir.”

“Bloody Spanish bastards!” Herold snarled. “Continue, Sturmbannführer.”

“Scharführers Witzleben, Dannhauser, Unger, Dollmann, Tresckow and Kophamel were also killed, sir…”

“Kophamel?” Herold suddenly sat up in his chair as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning.

“Sir?” Ulrich asked in confusion.

“Uh, nothing, Ulrich,” Herold shook his head. “I just had a sudden thought. I want to see the service records of all of our dead men, and I particularly want to know if any of
them served in Spain with the Condor Legión.”

“Yes, sir.” Ulrich snapped his folder shut.

“I also want to know the names and service record of all the personnel at the Spanish Consulate, particularly the name of their Military Attaché.”

Ulrich shook his head. “Finding out the names of all of the personnel should be relatively simple, sir. However, finding out their service records may be more difficult…”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses, Ulrich. Just do it, and I want it done yesterday!” Herold shouted. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hope so, Sturmbannführer. For your sake.” Herold pointed his finger at Ulrich. “Because your record so far in command of Hereward has failed to impress me, and you are
one whisker away from being sent back to Berlin in disgrace. Dismissed.”

“Heil Hitler!” Ulrich saluted.

“Heil Hitler!”

“Two of my MPs are missing, sir, Privates Marlene and Schwarzkopf. They failed to return from their patrol today,” Sergeant Major Bratge reported as he stood at a
position of attention.

“What do you think has happened to them, Sergeant Major?” General-Major Christian von Schnakenberg asked him.

“Well, I don’t think that they’ve deserted, sir,” Bratge replied. “They only joined the unit recently and they were both as keen as mustard and desperately trying
to impress, especially young Schwarzkopf, sir.”

“So do you think that they tried to arrest your two Spanish hitmen?” von Schnakenberg asked.

Bratge nodded. “That’s exactly what I think happened, sir. They spotted the assassins and decided that the two of them were up to the job of arresting them without calling for
reinforcements, despite the fact that they were expressly ordered to do so. They bit off more than they could chew and as a result of their overconfidence they are no doubt dead and lying in a
ditch somewhere.” Bratge shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

“Ah, the folly of youth,” von Schnakenberg commented. “When you’re young you think that you are indestructible and that you can do anything.”

“Marlene and Schwarzkopf found out the hard way that their appraisal of their own abilities was hopelessly optimistic.”

“Anyway, we can’t let this situation continue, Sergeant Major. This is Hereward, not Chicago, and I will not allow a pair of Spanish hit men to run around like they own the place. I
want these two men found and brought back to me alive.”

Bratge scratched his head. “That’s going to be difficult, sir. I’m undermanned as it is. Looking for these two will be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I need more men,
sir.”

“Brigadeführer Herold has offered us the services of his SS military policemen,” von Schnakenberg said. “I haven’t accepted his offer yet and I would rather not, as
I simply do not trust those Nazi bastards. However, needs must: do you need the men?”

“Yes, sir,” Bratge replied. “I need all the help that I can get, sir. The more the merrier.”

“All right then,” von Schnakenberg nodded. “I’ll contact Brigadeführer Herold and gratefully accept his kind offer. You’ll get your extra manpower.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bratge bowed. “One more thing, sir.”

“Yes, what is it, Sergeant Major?”

“Are you sure that you want both hitmen taken alive, sir, or will one suffice?”

Von Schnakenberg thought for a moment before replying. “On second thoughts, one will suffice, Sergeant Major,” von Schnakenberg replied. “You can feed the other one alive to
the swans on the River Ouse for all I care.”

“Very good, sir.” Bratge saluted.

“Carry on, Sergeant Major. Dismissed!”

“Sir, I have the service records of all of our men who were killed in the hotel bombing,” Sturmbannführer Ulrich announced.

“Carry on, Sturmbannführer,” Brigadeführer Herold ordered.

“Very good, sir.” Ulrich clicked his heels. “All of the officers and men fought during the invasion of Britain and also the invasion of France, sir. Hauptsturmführer Abetz
and Scharführers Witzleben, Dollmann, Unger and Kophamel all served in Spain with the Condor Legión…”

“What is the name of the Spanish Military Attaché?” Herold interrupted abruptly.

Ulrich looked at his notes before he replied. “Major Mendoza, sir. Major Juan Mendoza of the XVIIth Bandera of the Spanish Foreign Legión, sir.” Ulrich continued to read his
notes and blew a wolf whistle. “Franco’s poster boy, sir. He was awarded the Laureate Cross of Saint Ferdinand, Spain’s highest military medal for gallantry during the civil war,
and he is a genuine war hero. He is married to the daughter of a very prominent Falange Government Minster and by all accounts he has a shining and glittering military, and probably political,
career ahead of him, sir. Mendoza will probably end up as a general.”

“Not if I can help it,” Herold hissed to himself under his breath.

“Halt! Hande hoch!” The order echoed over the cobble stoned market square.

The two men who were the object of the order looked at each other in confusion and slowly raised their hands above their heads.

“Turn around with your hands above your heads!” the heavily German-accented voice ordered in English.

The men did as they were told.

“Good! Now, kneel...!”

The double shot interrupted the German Military Police sergeant’s orders.

“Berger! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The MP sergeant barked.

“I thought... I thought he was going for his gun,” Berger replied.

“Berger, you bloody idiot! Both of his hands were up! How the hell could he be going for his gun? Hauptwachtmeister Bratge gave express orders that the suspects were to be captured
alive!” the sergeant shouted in anger.

“Yes, Sergeant Schulenburg, I’m sorry, Sergeant Schulenburg...”

Berger was still apologising when Schulenburg’s head disappeared in a spray of blood, bones and brains.

Berger looked up as the surviving Spaniard fired another two shots. The German ducked as the rounds ricocheted off the stonework above his head. Berger snapped off two rounds to keep the
Spaniard’s head down as he took cover. The German leaped behind a pillar and waited for the Spaniard to return fire. Nothing happened. Berger cautiously peered around the pillar, and saw the
second Spaniard lying flat on his back. The German carefully approached the fallen man as he lay on his back in a pool of blood. There were two bloody holes in his stomach.

“Mio Dio... mio Dio...” the Spaniard moaned between groans. His hands vainly tried to staunch the bleeding. “Bagnata... bagnata.” His hands looked as if they had been
dipped in a bucket of blood.

Berger’s eyes welled up with tears. He had recently been posted to England and he had never seen a dead body before, and he had certainly never shot and killed anyone before. The German
whipped a field dressing out of his jacket and applied it to the Spaniard’s stomach wound. “Perdone, amigo...” Berger desperately tried to remember a few words of his schoolboy
Spanish to comfort the dying man. “I didn’t mean to kill you.”

The Spaniard’s eyes blinked in obvious confusion “No... no... no...”

“It’s all right, amigo. Help will be here any minute.”

“No soni di España... soni di Italia... soni di Italia... no soni di España...”

Berger’s face drained of blood as he picked up the dying man’s dog tags.

Gian Lorenzo Bruno. Sergeant. 24860143. 2
^nd
Bersaglieri Regiment. Berger hurriedly ran over to the other dead man. Cesare Galilei. 2484104. Major. 2
^nd
Bersaglieri
Regiment.

Berger stood up on unsteady legs and he staggered over in a daze to the decapitated corpse of Sergeant Schulenburg. He looked down at the body of his sergeant, the man who had welcomed him to
the unit and who had looked after him and had treated him like a son. Sergeant Schulenburg was his friend. And now he was dead as a result of Berger’s stupidity and two innocent men also lay
dead, killed by Berger’s own hand. Berger stood up as his mind raced into the future: court martial and inevitable punishment, disgrace both for him and his regiment, shame and humiliation
for his family, never mind the diplomatic fallout between Germany and Italy. Berger experienced a Saint Paul on his road to Damascus-like epiphany, and suddenly realised what he had to do to right
the wrongs that he was responsible for. He walked over to Bruno and knelt down. “I’m sorry, comrade.” Berger shook his head through tear-filled eyes as he gathered his strength to
do what he had to do. He swiftly put one hand over the dying Italian’s mouth and pinched his nostrils closed with his other hand. He ignored the man’s feeble attempts to fight him off.
When the Italian was dead Berger picked up the dead man’s pistol, put it back in the Italian’s hand, put the pistol to his own heart, and pulled the trigger.

“What a bloody mess.” General-major von Schnakenberg threw the report across his desk in disgust.

“Yes, sir.” Sergeant Major Bratge bent over to pick up the report which he had written and had landed at his feet. He understood von Schnakenberg’s frustration.

Von Schnakenberg swivelled his chair and looked out of the window. “And of course the Italians are screaming blue murder and demanding their pound of flesh in compensation. God knows what
we will have to give them to quieten them down. Tanks, aeroplanes, weapons which we can ill-afford to give them since we invaded Yugoslavia and Greece last month. We’re going to need all of
the weapons and equipment that we can get hold of for when we invade Russia.”

“Russia, sir?” Bratge asked with raised eyebrows.

“Oh yes, Bratge. Russia. Come on, it was only a matter of time. Surely you saw it coming, Hauptwachtmeister? You didn’t really think that Hitler would honour the Non-Aggression
Treaty which we signed with the Reds?”

Bratge shook his head. “Of course I didn’t think that the Führer would honour the agreement which we signed with the Reds, sir; I just didn’t think that we would break it
so soon. After all, we haven’t won the war in the West yet, sir. Churchill is still holding up north in Scotland. Is it wise to attack Russia whilst we are still fighting in the Balkans,
North Africa and in Britain, sir?”