Young Lions Roar (3 page)

“Boys, as you have no doubt realised, Mr Ansett is missing, as are many of your schoolmates, both in this house and in the wider school community. The Germans have not yet allowed access
to the morgue, which is full to the point of overflowing. However, I have visited Hereward Hospital to search for your friends. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the missing have not been found,
and it is my sad duty to inform you that they most likely never will be, and are probably dead.”

Most of the boys burst out crying and Alan knew that it was futile to fight the flood of tears that ran freely down his face. He put his arm around his brother and gave him a tight squeeze. One
of Davie’s young friends came up to the two brothers and Alan gathered him into the group hug. Another of Davie’s mates joined them, until all of the Cromwell boys were joined together
in a giant circle of grief like a team talk before a rugby match. Mrs Burgess walked amongst the boys offering an ample bosom to cry on.

Ashworth waited for the crying to die down and for the boys to look up before he continued. “It is my pleasure to introduce Mr John Baldwin. Although I wish that I was doing so under more
pleasant circumstances. Mr Baldwin completed his teacher training at Cambridge University last year and is an Old Boy. In fact, he was House Captain of Cromwell from 1935 until 1936. He will
replace Mr Ansett as Principal Teacher of Geography and he will perform the duties of acting House Master of Cromwell House until Captain Mason recovers and is able to take over as permanent House
Master of Cromwell…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Alan interrupted. “I didn’t quite catch you. Did you say that Captain Mason was going to take over as permanent House Master of Cromwell?”

“Yes, I did, Mitchell, and I would ask you to be so kind as not to interrupt in the future.”

“Sorry, sir.” Alan dipped his head in apology.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, I thought that the SS killed all of the Specials, sir.”

“But you’re a Special and the SS didn’t kill you.”

“Yes, sir.” There was no denying it.

“Captain Mason also survived and is recovering from his war wounds at Hereward Hospital.” Ashworth started to leave and then stopped in his tracks. “In fact, come to think of
it, both you, Captain Mason and young Sam Roberts all survived not only the destruction of the Specials but also the destruction of the Hereward Home Guard as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It seems that the fates of yourself, Roberts and Captain Mason are inextricably linked.”

Alan’s heart was beating so hard that he thought that if he opened his mouth to answer his heart would literally leap out of his mouth. Alan said nothing as Ashworth left the room, leaving
Baldwin in charge.

Alan was too preoccupied with deep thought to notice the new housemaster examining him with keen interest.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the boys said in unison.

“Good afternoon, boys,” the Hereward Hospital receptionist answered, “What can I do for you?”

“We were wondering if it might be possible to pay Captain Mason a visit,” Alan asked.

“You’re two of his students?”

The boys nodded.

The receptionist checked her notes and shook her head. “I’m sorry, boys, but Captain Mason is in no fit state to receive visitors and probably will not be for many days, if not
weeks, to come.”

“How is he?” Sam asked.

“Frankly, it’s an absolute miracle that he’s still alive. He had a thick King James I Bible in his tunic pocket and the book absorbed most of the impact of the bullets. The
bullets didn’t even penetrate his skin, although he did break a few ribs and he has some pretty impressive nasty purple bruises on his chest. He also has a hairline fracture as a result of
striking his head hard against the floor when he fell. He is also suffering from cracking headaches and he slips in and out of consciousness…”

“But he’ll live?” Sam interrupted abruptly.

“Oh yes, he’ll live all right, but it will be many months before he’s fully recovered.”

Sam slammed a fist into the palm of his hand and swore under his breath; which was rather a strange reaction, the receptionist thought.

“Would it be possible for us to leave these flowers for him?” Alan asked, flashing his most charming boyish smile, holding up a bouquet that he’d stolen from the cemetery on
the way to the hospital.

“Yes, of course. You can leave them in a vase on the table outside his room.”

“Where is it, ma’am?”

“Room one hundred and one on the first floor.” The receptionist pointed to the staircase. “You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been very helpful,” Alan said as he touched the peak of his school cap.

“My pleasure, boys. Glad to have been of assistance,” the receptionist answered with a smile.

Sam mumbled something that sounded vaguely grateful under his breath.

Wasn’t the taller of the two young men a queer kettle of fish? the receptionist thought to herself as they both disappeared up the stairs.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Sam?” Alan hissed angrily as they mounted the stairs two at a time. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“I can’t believe the bastard’s still alive. I shot him twice at point-blank range.” Sam mimicked the action with his two top right hand fingers.

“Mason was lucky, that’s all.”

“Mason has the luck of the devil.” Sam shook his head in frustration. “First Fairfax then St George’s Day. Well this time the treacherous bastard won’t get away.
This time I’ll finish what I started…”

The boys stopped suddenly in their tracks, as if they had run into a brick wall. Two armed men stood outside room one hundred and one at a rigid position of attention. As they spotted the two
boys, the two guards came to the en guard position with their bayonet fixed rifles held in out in front of them. “Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe?” the leader challenged.

“Friends! Easy, boys!” Alan said with his palms held up in front of him. “We come in peace!”

“At ease!” the leader said. The two guards cradled their weapons in their hands as the two boys walked up to them.

“Who are you men?” Sam asked as he tried to identify the guards’ black battle dress uniforms. “You’re not Police or Specials…”

“We’re certainly not Specials, mate,” the younger guard answered. “The Specials have been disbanded across the whole of the country as a result of this St George’s
Day Massacre of yours. Or haven’t you heard? You probably don’t get word as quickly, being way out here in the sticks,” the young man said in a broad cockney accent.

“So what are you then?” Sam tapped the elder guard’s armband with genuine curiosity.

“We’re Fascist Militia, son,” the older guard replied.

Sam reacted as if he had been slapped in the face. He whipped his hand away from the armband as if he had been burnt.

The older Fascist pointed at the initials on his armband BUFM. “British Union of Fascist Militia,” he said proudly as he puffed out his be medalled chest.

“Prime Minister Joyce has sent us up here from London to take care of your Jewish Bolshevik terrorist problem, innit?” the young militiaman explained.

“Prime Minister Joyce?” Alan asked in confusion.

“Crikey, you country bumpkins are ignorant!” the young Fascist guffawed. “Don’t you know anything?”

“Deputy Prime Minister Joyce has taken over as PM following the recent murder of Prime Minister Mosley,” the older militiaman explained. “God rest his soul.” He crossed
himself solemnly.

An Irish-American Nazi as Prime Minister? Alan could still remember the ridiculous broadcasts that Joyce had made from Berlin during the War. He always began his broadcasts with “This is
Germany calling…” and spoke with a terrible hammy put-on upper class accent… Lord Haw Haw.... they used to laugh at him, and now he was Prime Minister? There was definitely
something rotten in the state of Denmark.

“That’s… an interesting development,” Alan managed to say with a weak smile.

“But why are you here?” Sam asked.

“We’re here to guard Golden Boy,” the young Fascist gestured over his shoulder at the room behind him. “He’s become a regular pin-up poster boy for the
Party.”

“But why?” Sam persisted. “He’s not even a member of the BUF.”

“That’s a mere technicality, son.” The older militiaman tapped his nose confidentially. “I’ve known Wily Willy since the early street fighting days of the Party
when we used to fight the Jews and the Reds in the East End. The new Prime Minister is a master propaganda artist. He would make Goebbels look like a beginner. By the time that he’s finished
with Captain Mason the whole country will believe that the first words to come out of the good captain’s mouth were ‘Sieg Heil’ instead of ‘Mummy!’”

The younger militiaman laughed uproariously at the older man’s words as if it was the funniest joke that he’d ever heard.

Alan could only smile weakly.

“Captain Mason is our trump card because he is the only British survivor of the Massacre…” the older Fascist continued.

We’ll soon see about that, Sam thought to himself.

The two figures crept quietly through the sleeping streets of Hereward, keeping closely to the shadows. They were dressed entirely in black, from their balaclavas to their
black plimsolls. Their faces were camouflaged with black shoe polish and their Schmessier submachine guns had black material wrapped around them to disguise their shape and also to prevent their
weapons from giving away any tell-tale shine. They wore black gloves and moved like shadows through the night towards their target.

They stopped at the corner before the building and watched the two lorries that were parked in front of the hospital. They knew that the one on the left contained an Army guard unit, whilst the
one on the right contained an SS guard unit. The men in black knew from earlier observation that each unit consisted of an under strength squad of eight men commanded by an NCO with a junior NCO as
second-in-command. The black figures knew that the Army and the SS had divided their responsibilities so that two Wehrmacht soldiers patrolled the outside of the hospital in pairs and two
stormtroopers patrolled the inside of the hospital in pairs. Each guard duty lasted two hours. Both guard units had been on duty since six pm and they were due to be relieved at six am. The time
was now three am in the morning, which meant that the guards currently on patrol were now on their second stint of sentry duty, and had probably had little sleep since their first patrol. They
would be tired, bored and fed up and the only thing on their mind would be getting back to the lorries and hitting the sack in their sleeping bags. The men in black also knew that the guards as a
whole would rather be somewhere else, and considered the entire duty to be a complete and utter waste of time. Their comrades were busy enjoying the May Day Bank Holiday and were no doubt tucked up
snugly in bed with their English girlfriends, enjoying their weekend leave whilst they were stuck on this chicken shit detail. In military terms both the Army and SS guards had low morale and were
somewhat less than diligent in their attitude towards the carrying out of their duties.

The men in black were determined to capitalise on the guards’ carelessness and lack of attention and dedication to detail.

The black figures gave the Army sentries a one hundred feet head start, before they carefully and cautiously followed them on their patrol around the outside of the hospital. When the two
shadows reached the Emergency Exit at the back of the building they silently climbed three flights of stairs to the top floor. They slowly opened the Emergency Exit door and both slipped through.
They were at the end of a short corridor with three rooms to the left of them - the drug store, the linen store and the cleaning store - and two toilets to the right of them, male and female.
Directly in front of them was the main staircase and a pair of lifts. The men in black slowly crept to the end of the short corridor and carefully looked around the corners to the left and right.
There was nobody in sight. The black figures knew from earlier reconnaissance that the ward on the left was full of Wehrmacht wounded whilst the ward on the right was full of SS wounded. The vast
majority of the German wounded had been injured in the recent fighting on St George’s Day. There were no SS guards visible. Nor did there appear to be any medical staff on duty.

One of the dark figures breathed a huge sigh of relief. “There’s no one here. That makes things a whole lot easier,” he whispered to his companion.

“I guess that the doctors and nurses don’t consider looking after wounded Nazis to be a top priority.” Truth be told, the medical staff were also probably working with a
skeleton crew as a result of the public holiday. “We need to be quick before the SS guards turn up on their patrol.”

The first figure nodded his head in the darkness. “Let’s do this. Strength and honour.”

“Strength and honour.” Both figures shook hands.

The first man slowly took off his rucksack and placed it on the floor. He loosened the drawstring and took out a large box-shaped object that he put down silently. He slowly unwound the thick
towel that he had wrapped around the jerrycan. He unscrewed the cap and instinctively screwed up his nose at the sudden release of petrol fumes. The man picked up the petrol can and carefully
poured some underneath the door of the drug store. He continued pouring and left a stream from the drug store to the linen store and on to the cleaning store. He poured the remains of the petrol
can underneath the linen store and the cleaning store. The two figures retraced their steps to the Emergency Exit and stepped through the door onto the Emergency Exit stairs. The last man through
took a box of matches out of his trouser pocket, extracted a match, lit it and set fire to the petrol-soaked towel that he was holding in his hand. The towel instantly caught on fire and the man
threw the burning material into the middle of the petrol-soaked floor. The entire floor erupted in flames and the arsonists had barely descended to the second floor when the whole of the drug store
erupted with a massive explosion as the fire reached the ether and oxygen bottles stacked on the floor inside.