Young Lions (28 page)

“What are our orders?” Alan asked.

Chapter Twenty-Two
 

The sudden sound of many engines revving shattered the calm of the Sunday morning.

“What is it, Bishop Rathdowne?”

“I’m sure that it’s nothing, Mrs. Haves.” Bishop Ben Rathdowne patted the hand of the elderly lady standing beside him on the top step at the entrance to Hereward Cathedral. “There’s no need to worry.”

But he was worried.

Lorries suddenly entered the Town Square from all four corners and drove towards the War Memorial where they screeched to a halt. The tailgates were immediately lowered and Germen soldiers started piling out with their weapons at the ready.

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Haves asked.

Rathdowne didn’t answer. He quickly walked down the steps of the Cathedral and started heading towards the memorial where a group of German officers had gathered. Soldiers had sealed off all of the exits from the Square and they were preventing anyone from entering or leaving. More S.S. troopers had surrounded Rathdowne’s congregation and they were busily shepherding them towards the Town Hall like so many sheep dogs.

“Standartenfuhrer, I demand an explanation.” Rathdowne interrupted the officers in fluent German. Rathdowne looked with alarm at the storm troopers setting up machine guns at the exits to the Square and at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Town Hall.

“Ah, Bishop Rathdowne, I presume?” The S.S. standartenfuhrer said. “I don’t believe that I’ve had the pleasure. My dear Bishop, you are of course familiar with the Books of the Old Testament?” Standartenfuhrer Lowe looked Rathdowne up and down as he spoke. He was sizing him up. Trying to anticipate his reaction. “You are familiar with the idea of ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?’”

“Yes, of course I am.” Rathdowne answered with growing impatience. He could feel a bead of sweat running down his back. “What do you mean?” Rathdowne could see soldiers wading into his parishioners and pulling out men and women. They seemed to be working without rhyme or reason. There didn’t seem to be any plan. The storm troopers appeared to be picking on people indiscriminately. Anyone who resisted was clubbed unconscious to the ground under a barrage of rifle butts. The comatose victim was then dragged to the foot of the Town Hall steps and unceremoniously dumped in a rapidly growing pile of unconscious congregation members.

“There’s your answer, Rathdowne,” Lowe replied grimly. He pointed at the Police station at the opposite end of the Square. Rathdowne could see the dark brown stains of blood that had dried on the cobblestones following the partisan attack from the night before.

“My God…” the hair on the back of Rathdownes’ neck stood on end and the strength seeped from his legs as he sagged onto the bonnet of Lowe’s staff car.

Lowe walked up close to the Bishop and spat on the ground at his feet. “Twenty of your teeth for one of mine,” he sneered into Rathdowne’s ear. “Twenty of your eyes for one of mine,” he continued.

Rathdowne tried to stand up. Two of Lowe’s soldiers grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to turn around to face the Town Hall. Ten of his parishioners appeared on the balcony. Two S.S. troopers stood behind each one.

“Watch, Holy Man!” Lowe’s sauerkraut breath assaulted Rathdowne’s nostrils. “Pray for your God to save your people.” A storm trooper grabbed Rathdowne’s hair and wrenched his head back, forcing him to watch.

Lowe raised his right arm, stuck out his thumb and pointed it towards the ground. Soldiers immediately grabbed the men and women, pushed them up to fence and threw them over in one fluid movement. The parisioners’cries were immediately cut off as the ropes stretched taut and snapped their necks. Rathdowne felt the tears well up in his eyes and flow down his cheeks in a flood. He tried to break free, but Lowe’s bullyboys held on fast. Another ten members of Rathdowne’s congregation followed. And then another ten and another. The screaming, protests and pleading of those about to die filled the Square as the death toll mounted. A father and son managed to break through the cordon of S.S. troopers. They started running towards one of the exits. Too late they realized that a machine gun squad blocked their path. The machine gun opened fire and knocked them to the ground almost cutting them in half. More victims followed the path to the balcony until there were so many men and women hanging there that it was impossible to tell where one person ended and another one began.

Lowe turned around and gave orders to another of his officers. S.S. storm troopers hung the last ten men and women from the veranda and then ran down the stairs and headed back to Lowe at the War Memorial in the center of the Square. Other soldiers standing at the entrance to the Town Hall ran down the sides of the Square and also headed towards Lowe. “Form another line.” Lowe ordered. The S.S. troopers formed a double line behind the storm troopers who were still herding the parishioners towards the Town Hall.

The obersturmfuhrer in charge of the double line marched towards Lowe, halted and saluted. “What about the children, sir?” He asked.

Lowe shrugged indifferently. “Kill them all. Nits breed lice.” Lowe raised his right hand to his neck and drew his right forefinger rapidly across his throat from ear to ear.

The storm troopers poured bullet after bullet into the remaining members of Rathdowne’s cowering congregation. The sound of the soldiers’ gunfire mingled with the sound of the parishioners screaming and dying and echoed around the four walls of the Square. The men, women and children collapsed and lay twitching on the cold and bloody cobblestones in heaps and mounds. The storm troopers didn’t stop firing until their magazines were empty.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” The obersturmfuhrer shouted. He turned towards Lowe. “What about him, sir?”

“Leave him.” Lowe’s voice dripped with contempt. “He’s no use to his people. He’s no use to anyone.”

The S.S. troopers let go off Rathdowne’s shoulders. He slumped to the ground and vomited onto the cobblestones. He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his Bishop’s cassock and he watched the storm troopers wander amongst the dead and the dying. Rathdowne leant against the War Memorial and watched through tear filled eyes as the soldiers slaughtered the last of those still living and left in their lorries.

“My God…” Alan stood still, his mouth hung open with shock and disbelief.” What have they done?”

Alice held her hand to her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears. Limp, lifeless bodies hung from the Town Hall balcony. Their hands tied tightly behind their backs, their thick blue black tongues protruding from half open lips, eyeballs bulging from their sockets already turning black. Pyramids of people lay by the steps to the Town Hall and blood ran like a river between the cobblestones. Ambulances had parked haphazardly in the center of the Square. Stretcher-bearers were hurrying from the ambulances to the bodies and bearing away anyone who showed signs of life. Doctors, nurses and passerbys crouched beside the corpses administering first aid to the wounded. Several patrolling policemen and Specials had torn off their lapels, armbands and jackets in disgust and had thrown them amongst the bloody bodies, refusing to be associated with the Occupation Forces any longer. Other Specials and policemen had formed a loose cordon at the steps leading up to the Town Hall and were preventing an angry crowd from running up the steps into Schuster’s S.S. headquarters. A mob of hysterical people was gathering at the bottom of the steps and they were baying for blood shouting “Butchers!” and “murderers!” The solid oak double doors at the entrance to the Town Hall swung open to reveal a grim faced machine gun crew crouching behind an MG 42. The crowd automatically took a few faltering steps backwards. The policemen knew that if anyone broke through the Police line the machine gun crew would cut them down like so many chaffs of wheat. More townspeople looked up and they saw another MG 42 crew appear on the balcony.

Alan and Sam raced amongst the bodies frantically searching for Sam’s parents who had attended church that morning. They searched through pile after pile of bodies until their clothes, hands and face were covered in blood and gore.

“They’re not here, Alan…they’re not here,” Sam muttered and mumbled to himself. “Maybe they got away. Maybe they escaped.” He was thinking aloud. He was not really talking to Alan. Sam’s eyes were wide open and his hair was matted together with sweat and blood. He looked like a madman.

A scream suddenly split the air.

“Alice!” Sam shouted. He dodged between weeping women and mourning men grieving for their relatives and raced towards the source of the sounds.

“Sam…” Alice sobbed. She looked upwards towards the balcony and collapsed into Sam’s arms as he reached her.

Sam looked up. Alex Roberts’ wide-open eyes stared into the distance towards an indeterminate point. Michelle Roberts hung beside him. Mercifully, her eyes were shut.

“Those bastards…” Sam hissed. “You’ll pay for this!” He turned towards the balcony. “You’ll pay for this, you murdering Hun bastards!” He screamed at the top of his voice.

A figure appeared on the balcony. Schuster. Sam tried to force his way through the press of people forming at the base of the stairs. “Schuster!” He screamed. Schuster turned towards the source of the sound. “You bastard! I’ll get you! You’ll pay for this! You’re a dead man!”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Sam demanded angrily as he climbed down the ladder to the bunker. He glared at the person sitting beside Ansett.

“He’s with us, Sam.” Ansett replied calmly.

“Since when?” Sam asked in disbelief. “He’s a bloody traitor!” He lunged at the man. His fingers were curled like claws as he stretched towards his eyes.

Robinson blocked his path and grabbed Sam’s wrists. He held them in a vice like grip. “Sam! Sit down!” Robinson physically forced him into a chair. “Sam. Listen. I know that this is difficult for you, but you’ve got to listen.”

“You’re damn right it’s difficult: I’ve just found my mum and dad hanging from a balcony!” Tears flowed freely down Sam’s cheek, carving a path through blood, filth and gore. “How is it that he survived?” Sam pointed an accusing finger at the figure.

“Sam. You more than anyone deserve an explanation,” Ansett replied reasonably. He swung himself painfully from a lying to a sitting position on the bed on which he had been resting. “And so do you, Alan.” Ansett paused. “Do you remember when you first joined I told you that Jack and I were members of a four person Resistance cell?”

The boys nodded.

“You said that one of you had been killed during the Invasion.” Alan said.

“That’s right.” Ansett nodded. “But I never told you the identity of the third member of our group. You’re looking at him.”

Ben Rathdowne, Bishop of Hereward, stood up.

The five figures emerged from the shadows and mounted the steps to the Town Hall. The two S.S. sentries on duty at the door snapped to attention. The S.S.sturmbannfuhrer returned the salute. His four companions followed him through the entrance to S.S. Headquarters.

“Any movement?” The sturmbannfuhrer asked the rottenfuhrer in command of the machine gun crew at the door.

“No, sir,” the rottenfuhrer replied. “It’s as quiet as a church out there…excuse the pun, sturmbannfuhrer.” It was common knowledge that the executed civilians were members of the Cathedral congregation.

The sturmbannfuhrer laughed. “Keep up the good work, Rottenfuhrer.” He patted the soldier on the back as he walked by.

The sturmbannfuhrer raged inside. He had never felt such hate before in his life. He squeezed his fingers into a fist as tightly as he could in a desperate attempt to stop himself from screaming at the top of his voice. Screaming for justice. Screaming for vengeance.

The sturmbannfuhrer breathed a sigh of relief as he and his men walked up to the fourth floor. At last. Schuster’s office. And with three S.S. Staff cars outside there was a good chance that Schuster and all of the commanding officers of all three of Schuster’s S.S. regiments, including Lowe would be inside.

“Ready?” The sturmbannfuhrer whispered over his shoulder as they approached the two S.S. sentries guarding the door.

His team members behind him nodded.

“Are they inside?” The sturmbannfuhrer asked authoritatively.

“Yes, Sturmbannfuhrer.” One of the two storm troopers answered.

“Good.”

Two team members stepped out from behind the sturmbannfuhrer and they each fired two shots. The rounds from the silencer equipped pistols ripped into the storm trooper’s stomachs. They collapsed into the arms of the other two team members who caught them as they fell. The sturmbannfuhrer looked down the stairs. No sign of movement. He looked down the corridor to his left and his right. No noise apart from the continuous chatter of a typewriter. No one had raised the alarm

“Bring them inside,” the sturmbannfuhrer ordered. He knocked on Schuster’s door and entered. The officers were gathered around Schuster’s desk.

One of the men looked up. “What the-?” he fumbled for his pistol. The sturmbannfuhrer’s shots sliced into his stomach and the man collapsed in a heap to the ground. He curled up in the foetal position and lay moaning and groaning.

“Hands up!”

The Germans quickly raised their hands.

“Where’s Schuster?”

No one answered.

The sturmbannfuhrer fired.

Another officer crumpled to the ground.

“I won’t ask you again. If I don’t get an answer then I’ll execute the whole bloody lot of you.”

“He’s gone. He’s left,” another officer answered. “You just missed him.”

“That’s better.”

“You’re too late,” Lowe said smugly. “Your mission to kill the Brigadefuhreur has failed.”

“Au contraire, Standartenfuhrer Lowe.”

The colour drained from Lowe’s face: the assassin knew his name.

“Schuster is not the target: you are.”

The officers standing beside Lowe began to back away from him until he was completely isolated.

“Standartenfuhrer, you are of course familiar with the Books of the Old Testament?”