Young Lions Roar (30 page)

“Madre Dios…” Mendoza murmured. “Antonio and Julio.”

“Colonel!” a Legiónary shouted. “In the dining room!”

A tremor of terror ran up Mendoza’s back from his coccyx to the nape of his neck. He entered the dining room and found two other Legiónaries sitting at the table with their faces
buried in the plates of food in front of them. The soldiers had been killed at close range with a round in the back of the head as they both sat eating their lunch.

“Search… search the house for Aurora and Alice… they may still be here somewhere,” Mendoza ordered. He had to lean on the dining room table to steady him because his
hands were shaking so much.

“Sir…” A Legiónary handed him a piece of paper. “ It was on the table, Colonel.”

Mendoza read it with trembling hands:

WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER AND HER FRIEND. IF YOU WANT TO SEE THEM AGAIN THEN YOU WILL DO AS WE SAY. STOP ATTACKING US. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN US RETURNING THE HOSTAGES TO
YOU IN BITS. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

Mendoza read the words a second time and a third time as he tried to comprehend the implications of the message. He held the piece of paper at his side and rubbed his chin as
he tried to figure out what to do.

“Sir, what are your orders?”

“What?” Mendoza replied as if he was in a trance.

“Colonel Mendoza, what are your orders?” The lance corporal asked.

Mendoza did not reply.

The lance corporal gently took the piece of paper out of Mendoza’s hand. He read it once and then a second time to make sure that he clearly understood the message. “Colonel Mendoza,
may I respectfully suggest that you ask the commanders of all units of the Division to comply with this demand?”

“What? Yes… good idea, Lance Corporal Lopez. Carry on.”

“Very good, sir.” Lopez saluted. “Galtieri and Banderas, you stay here with the Colonel. Cruz, you come with me.”

But the message did not reach the rest of the Division in time. The next morning, two more stormtroopers were found dead on the streets of Hereward. A chorizo sausage was found
stuffed into both soldiers’ mouths.

“Are you sure that we have to do this?”

“I’m absolutely sure. He’s failed to comply with the instructions. He must be made to understand that we are deadly serious. We can deliver the warning from Frampton to
Hereward in fifteen minutes whilst it’s still fresh.”

“All right. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Do it.”

“Can you remember who delivered the package?” Mendoza asked.

“Yes, Colonel,” the captain of the guard answered. “An SS Hauptsturmführer, sir.”

Von Stein, Mendoza thought to himself. His heart sank.

“He spoke surprisingly good Spanish, sir,” the captain continued. “He asked me to give you this package personally.”

“Open it, please,” Mendoza ordered. His hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t trust himself to open the bow.

“Certainly, Colonel.” The captain opened the box and couldn’t help stepping back and wrinkling his nose at the repulsive smell.

“Pass the box to me, please, Captain.”

Mendoza accepted the box with trembling fingers and slowly unwrapped the bloody newspaper. He suddenly dropped the box as if it was red hot, and promptly passed out. Mendoza’s head thudded
onto the top of his desk before the startled captain could catch him. The captain tentatively looked inside the box. A delicately manicured severed finger lay within a nest of blood-soaked
newspaper.

“Well done, Hauptsturmführer; whatever you’ve been doing, it’s starting to work. None of our men were killed last night.” Herold was grinning like
a Cheshire cat as he stood up from behind his desk and shook von Stein’s hand.

“Excuse me, Brigadeführer, but I don’t know -”

“Come, come, my boy. No need to be so modest,” Herold said as he wrapped a fatherly arm around his Prodigal Son’s shoulders. “Listen, I don’t want to know the
details, just pass on my congratulations to your men on a job well done.” Herold shepherded von Stein towards the door.

“Yes, sir,” von Stein answered, with a bewildered expression on his face.

“Keep up the good work, Hauptsturmführer; we may yet come out of this with our heads still on our shoulders,” Herold said optimistically.

YOU FAILED TO COMPLY WITH THE LAST INSTRUCTIONS AND AS A RESULT YOU HAVE BEEN PUNISHED. IF YOU FAIL AGAIN WE WILL CUT OFF MORE THAN YOUR DAUGHTER’S FINGERS. YOUR MISSION
IS TO KILL HITLER. COMPLETE THE MISSION BY 20
^TH
JUNE OR THE HOSTAGES WILL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Mendoza dropped the paper and collapsed onto the armchair. What the hell was going on? Why did the SS kidnappers want him to assassinate Hitler? Was there some sort of internal
power struggle going on between Hitler and the SS? He shook his head in disbelief. It didn’t matter. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. It was purely academic. There was
absolutely no chance in hell that he would be able to complete the mission. Aurora and Alice would be dead by this time tomorrow.

John Baldwin was busy packing his rucksack, when he heard a knock on the front door to his flat. He opened the door to find a small boy standing there.

“Yes, what is it, Kendall?”

“There’s a German officer down stairs who wants to speak to you, sir,” Kendall replied.

“Thank you, Kendall,” Baldwin nodded. “Please tell him that I’ll be right there.”

As Kendall scurried off, Baldwin adjusted his St John’s Old Boy tie and put on his favourite tweed jacket. He walked downstairs and opened the front door to Cromwell Boarding House.

A German officer stood in front of him as Kendall had described. Or at least he was dressed as a German officer, except for one significant difference: he wore a red, yellow and red horizontal
shield on his right arm.

The officer flashed him a sunscreen advertisement smile. “El Bonito, I presume?”

“Excellent idea of yours to carry out a ‘Fighting in a Built Up Area’ exercise, Captain Baldwin!” Major Mason exclaimed as he tapped his swagger stick
into his other hand. “The Colonel will be most pleased with your show of initiative, John.”

“Thank you, sir,” Baldwin bowed his head. “I thought that it might prove useful, seeing that we may well find ourselves fighting through Berwick-Upon-Tweed, sir.”

“Sshhh!” Mason put his forefinger up to his lips dramatically. “Not so loud, John! On a need to know basis; the men don’t need to know yet!”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” Baldwin apologised. “With your permission, I will lead my company into Frampton and we will begin fortifying the village. I think that we will have
fortified the village by noon, Major.”

“Very good, Captain Baldwin, we will begin our assault at noon. Carry on.”

“Thank you, sir.” Baldwin saluted and walked off smartly.

Mason smiled. He always knew that it was a good idea to have recruited Baldwin into the Militia. There was far more to the young man than met the eye, and Mason would tell Colonel Griffiths that
Baldwin was responsible for organising the F.I.B.U.A. exercise when the Colonel returned from the briefing.

Colonel Mendoza waited as the SS Military Policeman searched his briefcase. It was stuffed full of documents and Mendoza held it open as the policeman gave it the most cursory
of inspections. There was a long line of officers waiting impatiently behind Mendoza, and the Invasion briefing was about to start. There would be hell to pay if any of the officers were delayed
because of the jobs worthy examinations of an overzealous policeman.

“Thank you, sir,” the MP said. “Please take a seat inside the Hall.” Mendoza nodded and walked through into St John’s Memorial Hall. The oak panelled walls bore the
names of all of the Academy’s teachers and past and present pupils who had been killed in the First World War and all of the various Imperial Police actions that British troops had fought in
since. Mendoza noticed that the walls did not bear the names of those who had been killed in the more recent fighting. If Hitler succeeded with his plans to transform St John’s into his
official British residence there was a chance that the walls would bear the names of those killed in the present war; but they would be the names of German, not British, dead.

Mendoza carefully placed the briefcase beside his feet and tested the strength of the chain that connected the briefcase to a handcuff around his left wrist. Yes, he was certain that there was
no chance that he could become physically separated from his briefcase unless it was through his own decision. Mendoza pulled his collar away from his neck. He was painfully aware that he was
sweating like a pig. He hoped that if anyone noticed they would put it down to the fact that it was an unusually hot day even for June. Mendoza was also genuinely nervous as he was going to present
his plan detailing how the 1
^st
LVE was going to relieve their SS comrades at the Beattie and Auchterlonie Bridges to none other than the Führer himself.

The convoy of requisitioned farm and furniture removal lorries carrying Baldwin’s company of militiamen trundled up Frampton High Street towards the far end of the
village. As the first lorry reached the top of the village the front wheel rolled on top of an anti-tank mine. The explosion tore off the wheel and ripped through the bottom of the cab, instantly
killing the driver and his passenger. The force of the explosion flipped the lorry onto its left side, where it lay burning and smoking. The cries of the dead and dying men inside were abruptly cut
short by the staccato sound of two MG 42 machine guns opening fire at point-blank range. After a brief burst of bullets to finish off any survivors the machine guns switched fire to the second
lorry, where they shattered the windscreen, killed the driver and the passenger, and ripped into the rear compartment like a chainsaw.

Baldwin sat in the cab of the third lorry, momentarily paralysed with fear.

“Sir, what should we do?” his young driver asked frantically, with wide eyes of terror.

His words shocked Baldwin out of his temporary stupor. “We’re under attack! Everyone out! Take cover in the houses!” he ordered.

His militiamen piled out of the back of the lorry as the MG 42s started to search for targets in the third lorry. Baldwin got out of the cabin just in time, as rounds shattered the windscreen.
His driver was not as quick and he died with a look of complete and utter surprise and disbelief on his face before he could open the door.

The first militiaman reached a house, and as he turned the door handle the booby trap exploded and threw him back out into the middle of the road, where he landed in a burnt and bloody heap. His
two companions who reached the door behind him were also thrown to the ground, and quickly bled to death before anyone could help them.

“Christ!” Baldwin’s eyes bulged wide with horror. “Watch out! The houses are booby-trapped!” Baldwin warned his men as he looked around frantically searching for a
familiar face. “Sergeant Cannon!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Where’s Second Lieutenant Doxat?”

“Dead, sir,” Cannon answered grimly.

Baldwin thought quickly before he spoke. “All right. Sergeant Cannon, you’re in command of the Second Platoon.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Second Lieutenant Ball,” Baldwin shouted as he spotted one of his young platoon commanders, “on my command you will take the Third Platoon and assault the enemy position, the
house at the far end of the village, by executing a right-flanking attack - understood?”

“Yes… yes, sir,” Ball replied nervously.

“Sergeant Cannon, on my command you will take the Second Platoon and assault the enemy position, the house at the far end of the village, by executing a left-flanking attack,
understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Cannon replied resolutely.

“The First Platoon is combat ineffective. I will command Company Headquarters and we will provide covering fire, understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Cannon and Ball chorused.

“Company Headquarters! On my command provide covering fire! Second and Third Platoons, on my command, assault the enemy position. Open fire!” Baldwin ordered.

“Here they come!” the first machine gunner said as the militiamen broke cover. He whooped like a Red Indian as he cut down the slowest three militiamen.

“We won’t be able to hold them for long,” the second machine gunner said. “It’s time to bug out!”

“What about the girls?”

“We leave them as planned,” the second machine gunner said as he shot another two militiamen. “Gotcha!”

“All right,” the first machine gunner said. “Let’s go!”

Sergeant Cannon was the first militia man to reach the house. He leaned against the wall with his mouth hanging open like a panting dog as he caught his breath. He wasn’t
as young as he used to be.

“Go!” he ordered. “No! Not through the door! It may be booby -!”

The young militia man kicked open the front door and instantly disappeared in a huge haze of smoke and fire.

By the time that Ball reached the house there was nothing left of Cannon and the Second Platoon but a pile of burnt and bloody bodies.

Ball bent over at the waist as he was violently sick. He quickly recovered and wiped his vomit smeared mouth on the sleeve of his filthy black battledress.

“Come on, lads,” he said. “You know the drill. Let’s do this by the numbers! Machine gunners!”

Two machine gunners stepped forwards and fired their Schmessiers through the open door, spraying the far corners of the living room. Another two militiamen then stepped forward and threw in two
hand grenades. “Grenade!” they both shouted as they hurriedly backed out of the room. As soon as the grenades exploded the two machine gunners again stepped forward and fired into the
room. “Clear!” they both shouted in unison.

“All right, lads!” Ball shouted. “You know the drill. We clear the house room by room, floor by floor! Let’s go!”

Mendoza finished his presentation and sat down on his seat.

“Excellent presentation, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Alfredo.” Mendoza said with a smile. He looked at Major Alfredo Astray with genuine warmth and affection. They had served together since the Civil War began and Mendoza
sincerely regretted that his actions were about to place his old friend firmly in the eye of the storm. But he couldn’t see that he had any choice in the matter. There was no viable
alternative to the path that he was about to follow.