Young Lions (11 page)

“Kamerad!” One of the paras shouted.

The two paras slowly limped down the stairs with one supporting the other. They were covered in blood and the crippled one was obviously badly wounded.

Zorn stepped to the side as the two paras limped by. “Are you boys alright?” He asked, tenderly placing a hand on the shoulder of the walking man.

The para tapped the side of his head with the palm of his right hand and shook his head from side to side. I can’t hear you, he signaled.

Zorn squeezed the shoulder of the mime artist. “It’s probably temporary,” he tried to reassure them as he shouted in his ear. “Your hearing will probably return within a few days.” Or a few weeks. Or never, he thought. The para shrugged his shoulders. He then braced up and saluted. Zorn was caught off guard. He returned the salute and watched the paras continue their journey down stairs.

The two paras exited the communal entrance and walked into the Square. The injured paratrooper looked to his left. Two more paras were walking towards them.

“Are you alright?” Ansett whispered as he reached them. His words were almost lost amongst the sound of the carnage and chaos around them. The Germans were still firing indiscriminately at the windows of the flats surrounding the Square. There was not a single pane of glass that had not been shattered.

“Yes, we’re fine,” Alan reassured him.

Ansett pointed with alarm at their blood soaked uniforms and their equally blood soaked faces.

Sam laughed at Ansett’s confusion. “It’s not our blood,” he explained.

Ansett laughed with relief. “No, I didn’t think that it was. You look like you’ve been at an Aztec Sacrifice! Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Eight
 

“What’s the final body count?” Schuster asked. He was sitting up in bed with his right arm in a plaster cast and in a sling. His face was pale and drawn. He had lost a lot of blood from his wound.

Zorn stood at the foot of his bed. He read the names from the casualty list which he held in his hand. “Generalmajor Wurth, commanding officer of the Seventh Parachute Brigade killed.” Schuster grunted his approval. “Obersturmbannfuhrer Wrechert, your second-in-command, killed…”

“A damned shame,” Schuster interrupted, “he was a good man.”

“All the commanding officers and second in commands of the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth S.S. Infantry Regiment killed…”

“Christ! All of my senior officers!” Schuster interrupted angrily.

“…and Sturmbannfuhrer Offenbach the commanding officer of your Signals Company was killed. He was murdered in his flat, sir. A paratrooper bayonet was found stuck in his chest.”

“Interesting.” Schuster scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Go on.”

“Major Lindau, Second-in-Command, First Potsdam Grenadiers killed…”

“Every cloud has a silver lining.” Schuster chuckled at his own joke.

“Hauptsturmfuhrer Andreas Schmitt was murdered in his own flat as well, sir. He was executed at point blank range with two shots to the forehead. Forensics has determined that the rounds were fired from a Luger…” Zorn said grimly. “The killers had sticky fingers, sir. Schmitt’s webbing and Luger are missing.”

“Verdamnt! I served with his father in the last War. That’s one letter that I’m not looking forward to writing. ”

“The Mayor of Hereward was also killed…” Zorn continued.

“Which rules out any British Resistance involvement…”

“Unless he was shot as an example to collaborators…” Zorn interrupted.

“Three of our men survived the attack in the flats. One of them swears that the reason that the Scharfuhrer in charge hesitated before opening fire was because the attackers were paratroopers.”

“Could he have been mistaken?”

“Of course it’s possible, sir. However, I was in the same block of flats. Two wounded paras limped down the steps towards us and we let them go by. We found the bodies of our men and our wounded further up the stairs. A Hauptsturmfuhrer from the Fifth S.S. was in command, sir.”

“Could you identify these paras if you saw them again?”

“Possibly, sir. But they were covered in blood and I didn’t notice which of Wurth’s three para battalions they were from. Anyway, Goering would never allow the S.S. to carry out an identity parade inspecting three thousand odd paratroopers.”

Schuster nodded. “Our total casualties?” Schuster braced himself for the worst.

“Twenty seven killed, sir. Eighteen wounded.”

Schuster shook his head from side to side in despair and disbelief. His brigade had been decapitated. He had lost virtually all of his senior commanders. How was he to fill these dead men’s shoes? He simply did not have enough good men. How could he maintain the combat effectiveness of the brigade? “Paratrooper casualties?” He asked hopefully.

Zorn gave a pregnant pause. “Only one, sir. Generalmajor Wurth.”

And that was you, wasn’t it, Zorn? You sneaky bastard, Schuster thought. “No more paras killed or wounded?” Schuster was grasping at straws for good news.

“No, sir.”

Which would point to a paratrooper continuation of the vendetta, Schuster thought to himself. Two or more shooters in two separate flats. And you would have caused the Army casualties. “Army casualties?”

“As I said, sir, Majors Lindau and von Karajan killed. Von Schnakenberg wounded.”

Schuster’s eyes locked like a magnet on Zorn. He felt the rage rise inside him like a burning fire. If looks could have killed, Zorn would have fallen stone dead on the spot. Schuster automatically reached for his Luger, his eyes blind with sudden rage. But his right hand was trapped in a plaster and sling. He winced as a sharp pain lanced through his injured arm. And anyway, he was not wearing his holster. The hospital frowned upon their patients wearing their weapons in bed. He turned to look at Zorn once more. Schuster’s eyes bore into him accusingly. You clumsy bastard. You missed. You only had to kill Wurth and von Schnakenberg and you missed one of them

Zorn refused to look away. He looked back at Schuster meeting him glare for glare. Staring him down. You can’t say anything, Schuster, he thought. You can’t complain. You can’t chastise or rebuke me. Because you can’t admit that you know anything. You can’t acknowledge that you know that I killed Lindau and Wurth and wounded von Schnakenberg. And all in your name. All because you wanted me to. “Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” This way, if all of this blows up, if word somehow leaks out, you can deny all responsibility. You can say that I was a rogue officer carrying out a personal vendetta against the paras and the Army. A lone wolf. A loose cannon. You can wash your hands of me and deny all knowledge of me and responsibility for my actions.

“How is he?” Schuster asked, turning away to look out of the window.

“He’s still in hospital. A shoulder wound. He’ll pull through.”

“Any other casualties?”

“No more in the Square.”

No more Army casualties. Or para casualties. Only S.S. casualties. This definitely proved that the killers were paras, Schuster thought. By God, the paras would pay in blood ten times over for what they had done, he fumed.

Zorn coughed to catch Schuster’s attention. “Sir, there were Army casualties in the Cathedral.”

“In the Cathedral?” Schuster was confused. “What the hell was the Army doing there?”

“The Army was responsible for the security of that part of the Square, sir. Twenty nine killed, ten wounded.” Zorn answered in a monotone.

Schuster nodded his head approvingly. “I’m a bit short of company commanders,” he said. “I’m looking for a good man to fill the position of company commander of A Company, Fourth S.S. your old regiment. The job’s yours if you want it. Are you interested?”

Zorn smiled at Schuster’s ingenuity. Schuster knew that Zorn was rather less than pleased at having been forced to play the major role in the production that had become known as the Remembrance Day Massacre. Schuster was ever the strategist and politician and understood the need to offer sugar to sweeten the bitterness of Zorn’s medicine.

“I’m your man, sir.” Zorn knew that he had little choice other than to swallow his pride and swallow Schuster’s sugar.

“By the way. Did you manage to retrieve the report, Zorn?” Schuster asked casually.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Zorn replied apologetically. “I didn’t.”

“Oh well,” Schuster shrugged philosophically, “you win some, and you lose some.” Schuster’s Day of Judgment would come later. Of that Zorn had no doubt.

“Why did you shoot the mayor?” Alan asked.

“Walker was a collaborator,” Ansett said matter of factly. “He was spreading dangerous ideas like ‘live and let live’ around. We want to keep the Jerries on their toes. We want them to be constantly looking over their shoulders, constantly worrying about whether someone is going to bury a knife between their shoulder blades. We don’t want Hereward to gain the reputation as a place where the Huns come for a spot of rest and recreation. We want the Jerries to dread being posted here. We want the Huns to hate every single second of every single minute that they stay in Hereward. Anyway, the Germans will put Walker’s death down to a misfire or a ricochet. Walker was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Jerries won’t think that we’re ruthless enough to start killing our own.”

“Talking of our own people. How many did we lose?” Alan asked.

“Total civilian casualties: Thirteen killed and twenty four wounded.”

“Christ…”

“A mixture of men, women and children. Some killed in the crossfire. Most killed in the stampede to escape from the Square. Some gunshots wounds, but mostly crush wounds. Cuts and bruises and broken bones.”

“My God. We killed nearly as many of our own people as we did Germans,” Alan said bitterly. “Was it worth it, sir?” he asked with tear filled eyes.

“People always die in a war, Alan.,” Ansett explained gently. “Sometimes the innocent suffer along with the guilty. What we did was necessary.”

“How do I explain that to a child who’s lost her mother?”

Ansett thought for a few seconds before answering. “You would tell her that her mother died in a good cause. She died for freedom.”

On Christmas morning the whole household gathered around the Christmas tree. Alan was staying with the Roberts family for the holiday and he picked up a package addressed to him that he read was from Sam. The present was a wooden British Matilda tank. “Thanks, Sam. I was wondering what you had been making so secretly in woodwork class.”

“It was jolly difficult trying to keep it a secret, let me tell you,” Sam smiled.

“I’m glad that you like it.”

Sam opened the package that Alan had given him. It was a wooden Luger pistol painted black. It was very accurate and lifelike. And well it should be, Sam smiled. They had seen, held and fired enough of the real thing. Alan had simply copied the wooden model from his metal model. Sam laughed to himself. He knew that Alan had given him a wooden Luger as a none too subtle way of rubbing in the fact that Alan had a real one and Sam did not. However, although that may well have been true when Alan had begun to carve the pistol this was no longer the case. Sam had liberated a Luger during the Remembrance Day Massacre from the recently deceased Hauptsturmfuhrer Schmitt.

The next present that Alan opened was from Alice. The contents spilled put onto the carpeted floor. The package contained badges. Alan recognized them immediately. German Armed Forces badges. S.S. paratrooper and Army. Cuff and collar badges. Rank badges, Regimental shoulder and breast pocket identification badges, Specialist insignia such as anti-tank gunner, signaler, machine gunner and even a few medals and ribbons. Alan was gob smacked. He was holding a veritable treasure trove in his hands. He looked across at Sam. He was holding a similar collection of badges in his outstretched hands. And he was in a similar state of shock. Alan knew that the same question was racing through both of their heads: How did Alice get this?

Alan could hardly trust himself to speak. But as the silence dragged into seconds he knew that he had to. “Thank… thank you, Alice,” he stuttered.

“Do you like them?” Alice asked.

Alan didn’t know what to say. “Yes, they’re very nice,” he answered lamely.

“You don’t like them, do you?” Alice’s brow became furrowed with creases.

“No. No, I do. You like them too, don’t you, Sam?” Alan desperately searched for help.

“Yes,” Sam answered with a false smile. “I think that they’re… terrific. Where did you get them?”

Alice seemed to be placated by their reassurances. Her face broke out into a smile. “Trade secret. Everybody’s collecting them. They’re like gold dust.”

“Which ones are the most valuable?” Sam asked picking up an S.S. anti-tank gunner specialist badge.

“Paratrooper, S.S. then Army.”

“Why in that order?” Alan asked.

“Para badges are the most valuable because they’ve left Hereward. Army badges are the least valuable because they are relatively easy to get. You have to sweat blood and tears to get S.S. badges.”

Alan looked across at Sam. He saw how Sam winced when Alice paraphrased the words which Churchill had used when he had become Prime Minister. It seemed disrespectful if not downright sacrilegious to use those words so flippantly.

“The S.S. make you work hard for their badges,” Alice said shaking her head from side to side as if remembering how hard she had to “work” in order to get them. “They don’t surrender their badges without a fight.” Alice continued with a chuckle.

Alan didn’t even want to think about what Alice had done to convince the S.S. to “surrender” their badges.

“What about British badges?” Sam asked through clenched teeth.

“British Badges?” Alice snorted. “They’re tupence hapenny.” She was completely oblivious to her brother’s growing anger. “Everyone and their dogs got them. Every homeless down and out wandering the streets is an ex-soldier. Nobody wants them.”

“Are you talking about the badges or our soldiers?” Sam asked with barely controlled fury.

“The badges of course, Sam,” Alice stared at him as if he was the village idiot. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?” she said shaking her head. “I thought that you’d like the present.”