Young Lions Roar (26 page)

Ulrich’s face drained rapidly of colour until he was as white as a sheet. “Mein Gott…!” he said, with horror.

Herold nodded his head slowly. “You look exactly how I felt when I heard the news,” Herold said grimly. “There will be eighteen thousand Legiónaries based in Hereward
for approximately ten days before the invasion begins. How long do you think it will take for Mendoza’s men to fill in the new boys with the current state of German-Spanish
relations?”

“My God!” Ulrich exclaimed with his hand to his mouth. “There will be a massacre… there may well not be enough of us left alive to take part in the invasion of
Scotland…”

“My thoughts exactly, Ulrich.” Herold nodded his head. “There are scarcely two thousand SS in the whole of Hereward. We don’t stand a chance unless we even the odds a bit
more.”

“How do you intend to do that, sir?” Ulrich asked with the desperation of a drowning man gasping for air.

“We must bring the Army over to our side. Von Schnakenberg has about two thousand men in Hereward. The combined strength of four thousand Germans might be enough to convince the Spanish
that it would not be a wise decision to declare an all out war against us. It would simply cost them too many casualties,” Herold explained. “We must convince von Schnakenberg that the
Spaniards, and not us, are the true enemy.”

“But sir, General-Major von Schnakenberg has issued strict instructions that his MPs are not to intervene unless the Spaniards start to attack…” Ulrich was thinking faster
than he could speak.

Herold said nothing. He waited for Ulrich’s wheels of thought to stop turning around.

“Sir, you’re not suggesting…?” Ulrich began to ask.

“I’m not suggesting what, Sturmbannführer?” Herold asked with a knowing smile.

“You’re not suggesting... you’re not suggesting that we carry out attacks on the Army and pin the blame on the Spanish?”

Herold shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Why not? It’s been tried before. We faked an attack on German border posts by Polish troops at the beginning of the
War…”

“Except no one believed us, sir!” Ulrich interrupted. “The whole world knew that it was faked! If we try this stunt against the Army they will see through us and we will be in
a world of hurt! Von Schnakenberg is not a fool, sir! We will be jumping from the frying pan into the fire, and we’ll end up having to fight the Army as well as the Spanish!” Ulrich
protested vehemently. “You will have to get someone else to do it, Brigadeführer, because I won’t do it; I will not murder fellow German soldiers!”

“Are you refusing to obey a direct order from a superior officer?” Herold asked with raised eyebrows.

“Is this what this is, sir?” Ulrich asked. “Are you giving me a direct order to kill fellow German soldiers? Is that the order you want me to give to my men? Because if you
are, then yes, I refuse. You’ll have to get someone else to do your dirty work for you, sir, because I won’t do it. You can demote me, you can send me back home in disgrace, you can
even shoot me, I don’t care; but I won’t murder innocent German soldiers in order to carry out your Machiavellian plan, sir.”

Herold stared at Ulrich as if he was looking at a mythical creature for the first time; a unicorn or a Minotaur, perhaps. Ulrich was literally dripping with sweat. Herold nodded with awe and
amazement. At last he had found a man with a quality that was as rare as it was admirable: integrity. Herold smiled with newfound respect for Ulrich. Yes, he was convinced that Ulrich would
sacrifice his life rather than sacrifice his honour and murder fellow German soldiers.

“At ease, Sturmbannführer.” Herold chuckled with amusement. “I didn’t give you a direct order; I was merely speaking my mind, testing the water, playing
devil’s advocate, if you will.”

Ulrich’s shoulders literally slumped with relief. He looked as if he was ready to collapse into a dishevelled and exhausted heap at any moment.

“I guess that we’ll just have to think of a new plan to get the Spaniards off our backs…” Herold said. “And by the way, Ulrich, I have some more good
news…”

“Who else knows about the Führer’s visit, sir?” Oberleutnant Nicky Alfonin asked.

“It would be more accurate to ask ‘who doesn’t know,’ Nicky,” General-Major von Schnakenberg answered. “ The British, the Spanish, the SS and ourselves have
been asked to provide one platoon each when the Führer inspects the Guard of Honour in Hereward Town Square on June 15
^th
at three o’ clock in the afternoon. Nicky, you will
command our platoon Honour Guard.”

Alfonin bowed graciously. “Thank you, sir, but Hereward Town Square?” Alfonin asked in disbelief. “Haven’t they learned anything from the last time that they tried to
hold a parade in Hereward Town Square? Have the deaths of the King and Queen slipped their minds? It’s hardly the best omen…”

Von Schnakenberg shrugged his shoulders. “I did warn them, Nicky, but they just shrugged it off. They insisted that this time it would be different.”

“How, sir?”

“This time the Führer’s personal bodyguard will be ultimately responsible for his safety whilst the Führer is visiting Britain. His personal SS praetorian guards are flying
over from Berlin to the Luftwaffe base at Duxford with him. They will supplement the local SS forces that will provide security in each of the places that the Führer visits - Hereward, Ely,
Cambridge, Oxford, Bath and so on. Local SS forces will also provide security between the different venues that the Führer will visit. ”

“So the entire operation will be an SS under taking from start to finish, sir?” Alfonin asked. “The Army will not be responsible for anything?”

Von Schnakenberg nodded his head. “That’s right, Nicky. Brigadeführer Herold is to provide security whilst the Führer is in Hereward, which of course includes during the
parade in the Square. Our orders are simply to provide an Honour Guard.”

Alfonin gave a massive sigh of relief. “Well, I can’t say that I’m sorry that we haven’t been given the dubious honour of being responsible for providing security, sir.
Security surrounding the visit will have more holes in it than a chunk of Swiss cheese.” Alfonin said grimly. “I mean the British Fascist Militia is sure to be riddled with Free North
spies, and the Spanish Legiónaries hate us as well. Edinburgh probably knows about the Führer’s visit already. They’re no doubt assembling an assassination team as we
speak.”

Von Schnakenberg nodded his head. “I would be if I was the British. Imagine if we discovered that we had a realistic chance to bump off Churchill? I did try to warn the powers that be that
the British would send a hit squad to assassinate the Führer but they ignored my advice.” He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “As far as I’m concerned, I did my duty and
honour has been served. From now on I will follow the example of Pontius Pilate and wash my hands off the whole sorry situation.”

Brigadier Daylesford smiled in triumph like a man who had just won the lottery. “We have the complete Order of Battle of both Herold’s Triple S Brigade and von
Schnakenberg’s Brigade. Dates, times, targets, everything.”

“Are we sure that the information is reliable, sir?” Peter Ansett asked with raised eyebrows.

“As sure as we can be, Major.” Ansett had been promoted to Major to give him a position of power and influence within the Special Operations Executive. “The information has
been verified by three separate independent sources.”

“Excellent, sir. The question is whether or not this information will give us enough time to devise a defensive strategy to disrupt and destroy the German Invasion Plan.”

Daylesford nodded. “Of course, that’s the six million pound question. However, I’m certain that General Montgomery will be up to the job. After all, the Prime Minister has
every confidence in his abilities.”

“I wish that I shared your confidence, sir,” Ansett said grimly. “It’s just that all of our generals who have come up against the ‘German Fox’ have come a
cropper.”

Daylesford nodded his head. “I agree that Erwin Rommel is a formidable adversary, Major; but remember that Monty was the only one of our generals who was able to give the Jerries a bloody
nose when they thrust through France, and it was that bloody nose which made the Jerries hesitate and their temporary loss of confidence allowed us to get most of our boys out at Dunkirk. If anyone
can stop the Jerries, Monty can.”

“Yes, sir.”

Daylesford bared his teeth like a wolf. “And Pete, not only do we know the entire German plan for the invasion of Scotland on the east coast, we also know that Hitler will be paying a
visit to Hereward and he will be travelling around England and Wales for a whole week before the invasion begins.”

Ansett’s eyes bulged wide with shock and surprise at the news. “Hitler’s coming to Britain? When does he arrive?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

“Jesus Christ! That doesn’t give us much time,” Ansett exclaimed.

“I know.” Daylesford nodded his head. “The question is: can we get a team together in time to mount an operation?”

“We can’t rely on Percy’s unit?”

Daylesford shook his head. “No. They’ve taken heavy casualties recently and Percy has assured me that they are in no fit state to pull off a job of this size and significance by
themselves. They need help. Can we give it to them?”

Ansett thought for a moment before he answered. “I’ve got two people in mind that would be perfect for the job.”

Daylesford smiled, and put his hand on Ansett’s shoulder. “Excellent, Pete. I knew that you wouldn’t let me down. I want to brief them today; they leave tomorrow.”

The three parachutes floated gently through the sky and came to rest within sight of the Drop Zone.

“Alice and Bob, put out the fires,” Leon ordered. “Sam, you greet the nearest parachutist. Alan, you greet the furthest away parachutist. I’ll collect the canister.
Let’s go!”

Alice and Bob doused the flames that the Reception Committee had set to signal the SOE plane carrying the parachutists. Sam and Alan hurried away with mounting excitement to meet the new
arrivals.

Sam thought about the last time that they had met visitors from the Free North. They had welcomed Napoleon and his commandos to England less than two months ago, and every single one of them had
been killed during their abortive attack on the convoy carrying Kaiser Eddie and the Wicked Witch to Hereward. Sam shook his head with sorrow as he thought of the tragic waste of life. He tried in
vain to remember Napoleon’s face, but he failed dismally. Sam shrugged his shoulders as he physically shook those feelings free. The important thing was that they had got the job done and the
Resistance had accomplished the mission. Sam smiled as he remembered the look on the Puppet King’s face as he had executed him. He wouldn’t have traded that for all the tea in China.
Napoleon and his commandos had not died in vain.

“Welcome to England, comrade.” Sam shook the visitor’s hand.

“Comrade?” The visitor’s voice was raised in surprise. “Are you a Communist Resistance Group?”

Sam bristled at the tone of the question. “Does it matter?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good.” Sam nodded his head in the darkness. “Let’s meet the others.”

Every one quickly gathered around the dying embers of the bonfire.

“Welcome to England, gentlemen,” Leon said warmly. “Follow me to the farm.”

Leon led the way back to the farm in the pitch darkness. After a half an hour walk, they finally arrived at the farmhouse. “Bob, take first sentry duty,” Leon ordered.

“Yes, Dad,” Bob answered. He tucked his rifle into his shoulder, opened the door and walked outside, where he took up his sentry position facing up the road.

“You are not Communists?” Sam’s visitor asked.

Leon looked at the visitor as if he had asked Leon if he wore ladies’ underwear. “Does this look like a Collective Farm to you?” Leon chuckled “No, we’re not
Communists. But we’re not Tories either. We’re simple British patriots.”

“Bloody Tories,” Alan sneered. “If that spineless bunch of lily-livered custard-coloured cads had stood up to Hitler back in ’33, as Churchill had warned, we
wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

“Damn straight,” Sam agreed. He looked at the new arrival with a quizzical raised eyebrow. “But you’re not British? You speak English with an accent.”

The visitor nodded. “Correct. I’m from Gibraltar. Call me Greg. And this is Zed.” Greg introduced his companion, who responded with a friendly smile.

“Zed?” Sam said with raised eyebrows. “What sort of a weird name is Zed? No offence.”

Zed laughed. “None taken. My parents were missionaries and christened me Zachariah. Coincidentally, there was another Zachariah in my class at school. He was Zach and I was Zed.”

Sam laughed “Zed it is. Call me Sam.” Sam turned to face Zed’s companion.

“Do you speak Spanish, Greg?”

Greg nodded. “Si, hablo Español. My mother is Spanish, my father is Gibraltarian.”

“That’s interesting,” Alan interjected. “The Deputy House Master of Cromwell Boarding House speaks Spanish like a native as well. When I asked him about it he also said
that he had been raised in Gibraltar before the War. Perhaps you know him?”

“What’s his name?” Greg asked.

“John Baldwin.”

“Short, fat, dark and rather ugly?”

Alan shook his head. “No, quite the opposite: tall, slim, fair and rather good-looking. All the girls fancy him.”

“I’ll vouch for that!” Alice answered. “Mr Baldwin looks like a Hollywood movie star.”

Greg laughed and shook his head. “No, sorry. I don’t know him. It must be another John Baldwin that I know.”

“Pretty Boy is also a dirty fascist traitor, Al,” Sam said vehemently.

“Now, Sam. We don’t know that.” Alan defended his Deputy House Master.

“Al, he’s a member of the Fascist Militia,” Sam persisted.

“As am I, Sam,” Alan replied.

“You’re a member of the Fascist Militia?” Greg asked with wide eyes as his hand automatically grabbed the pistol grip of his revolver.

Alan laughed. “Only under orders. I’m in disguise.”