Young Lions (3 page)

Von Schnakenberg found a disheveled looking officer. “What happened?”

“They waited until we charged. Then they opened up with machine guns at point blank range. Our machine guns. German machine guns.” The words came out in a slur, dazed and halting as if he was sleep talking.

Von Schnakenberg turned to Lindau; “Freddy,” he asked in a tortured voice, “how did this happen?”

“They must’ve captured them from the motorcycle battalion,” Lindau replied. He paused, “Christian, there’s something else…”

Alarm bells went off in von Schnakenberg’s head. Lindau never called him by his first name unless he was either drunk or he was the bearer of bad news.

“Christian. Willy didn’t make it. Alfonin, his platoon feldwebel told me…”

Von Schnakenberg’s hand went up to his mouth and he bit into his knuckles. “Where is he?” He asked through clenched teeth.

“He’s lying out there with the rest of his men.…” Lindau answered.

Von Schnakenberg’s legs gave way as if someone had kicked them out from under him.

“I see,” S.S. Brigadefuhrer Hans Schuster said. A pause. “Let me see if I get this right: the whole of our advance is being held up because the mighty Potsdam Grenadiers cannot capture trenches held by the Home Guard!” Schuster screamed the final words at the top of his voice, spittle projecting out of his mouth and his face turning bright red; “Our advance is being held up by schoolboys and old men?” he continued, his scar twitching. Hans Schuster was the commanding officer of the King’s Lynn invasion force.

“I must protest, sir,” Lindau interrupted; “Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg’s own brother was killed in the attack and the men fought bravely,” he asserted. But they ran like cowards, he thought to himself, “Oberstleutnant…?” Lindau turned to his leader for support.

“Well, von Schnakenberg?” Schuster said, puffing out his chest.

Silence.

“I think that I’ve seen quite enough here. I’m bringing up the Fourth S.S. Regiment tonight and they’ll take up position behind you. Tomorrow at dawn we’ll attack the British and you’ll see how real Germans fight. Do your best to hold your position tonight,” Schuster walked forward until he stood inches from von Schnakenberg’s face; “However, I do give you permission to retreat if the Home Guard launch an attack…armed with pitchforks…”

Chapter Two
 

Hans Schuster had fought on the Western Front during the Great War and after the war he had joined the Freikorps and he had helped to crush the Communist Sparticist Revolt. Schuster had then joined the Nazi Party and had taken part in the Munich Beer Hall Putsch. He had commanded an S.S. Death Squad during the Night of the Long Knives and had become a tried and trusted personal friend of Hitler. He had commanded the Fourth S.S. Regiment and had led his men through the campaigns in Poland, the Low Countries and France. At the end of the Blitzkrieg he had been promoted to command an S.S. Brigade-which became known as “The Triple S” -Schuster’s S.S.

“Gentlemen, our guests have arrived. Let’s welcome them in true Triple S fashion.” His officers laughed loyally at their leader’s joke.

The refugees started to clamber out of the lorries until a group of several hundred had assembled. Von Schnakenberg and Lindau walked across to where Schuster and his officers were standing.

“Brigadefuhrer Schuster,” von Schnakenberg asked, “what’s going on?”

“Prisoner exchange,” Schuster answered, barely acknowledging him.

“Sir, with all due respect, I hardly think that this is the time or place for a prisoner exchange,” Lindau said.

“I’d rather listen to my grandmother’s military advice than listen to yours, Lindau. So with all due respect, keep your chicken shit opinions to yourself. ”

Lindau was about to say something that would finish his career for good when von Schnakenberg grabbed his arm.

The S.S. troops ushered the refugees into a thick long line that stretched for several hundred yards. The soldiers took up position behind them.

“I don’t like the look of this…” von Schnakenberg said.

“I’m getting a bad feeling…” Lindau added.

“Lindau!” Schuster shouted, “get your men into position behind mine.”

“Brigadefuhrer Schuster, do the British know that we’re proposing a prisoner exchange?” Lindau asked.

“No,” Schuster replied with a deadpan face, returning to look at his map.

Lindau looked over the hundreds of refugees milling around aimlessly. Men, women and children, old people and babes in arms. Children holding their parent’s hands, babies crying, old people sitting on the ground as they waited. Scared and bewildered, dazed and confused. S.S. soldiers hovering around the edges of the crowd like lions circling Christians in the Coliseum.

“You‘re not going to exchange prisoners at all, are you?” Lindau accused, “you’re going to use those people as a human shield!” Lindau’s eyes bulged with horror.

Schuster ignored him.

Von Schnakenberg clicked his heels to a position of attention. “Brigadefuhrer Schuster, I must protest: using civilians as a human shield directly contravenes all articles of the Geneva Convention.”

“Von Schnakenberg, this may come as a terrible shock to you, but I don’t give a rat shit about your precious Geneva Convention.”

“If you do this you will blacken the honour of the German Army for ever,” Lindau persisted.

Schuster turned to look at both of them with a look of sheer disgust and utter contempt on his face, “‘Blacken the honour of the German Army?’ You’re not in your fancy student fencing clubs and military academies now, you’re not in your fancy Prussian mansion now, you aristocratic bastards!” He was spitting as he spoke; “we should’ve finished off all of you Junker bastards when we dealt with the Jews!”

“I will not follow any order that contravenes the Articles of War,” Lindau said as he jutted out his jaw defiantly.

“Yes, you will, Lindau, you spineless piece of shit, or I will shoot you on the spot for cowardice and for disobeying the orders of a superior officer and your men will be placed under my command.” Schuster took his Luger pistol from his holster and pointed it at Lindau’s face.

Von Schnakenberg stepped in front of his friend and shielded him from fire. “That will not be necessary, sir,” von Schnakenberg assured him; “we will carry out your orders as instructed.”

“But Christian…” Lindau protested.

“I’d like to speak with Major Lindau in private, if I may, sir.” Schuster barely grunted his permission as von Schnakenber grabbed Lindau by the shoulders and steered him away from Schuster out of earshot. “Freddy, Schuster’s connected straight to the top. He’s a personal friend of Hitler himself! We have no choice. If we disobey him, it will not just be our heads which end up on the chopping block, but the heads of our families as well. We must do what he says. There will be time to settle the score later.” He released his vice like grip.

“Christian,” Lindau had not given up yet, “what about the regiment?”

“Freddy,” von Schnakenberg said gently, “if we don’t do as he says there will be no regiment.”

Von Schnakenberg returned to Schuster and clicked his heels together standing at attention; “I apologize on behalf of myself and Major Lindau. We were both out of order. Of course, we will do our best to support you.”

“You’re damn right you’re out of order!” Schuster exploded. He slipped on the safety catch as his face slowly returned to its normal colour; “I’m glad that you’ve finally seen sense,” Schuster put away his Luger. “I’m willing to forget this gross insubordination, but if it happens again I guarantee that you will spend the rest of this war on garrison duty in Berlin.” He banged his fist on his car bonnet and made his map jump. “Do I make myself clear?” His words were laced with poison.

“Yes sir!” von Schnakenberg and Lindau answered in unison.

“Very well, gentlemen,” Schuster said, his voice returning to normal, “let’s put this unfortunate incident behind us. Major Lindau, to your position. Oberstleutnant von Schnakenberg, stay here with me, if you please. Come, come Christian,” von Schnakenberg winced as Schuster put his hand on his shoulder. “After all, we’re on the same side.”

“Come on, Al,” Sam said. “Get up.”

“Colonel,” Captain Mason announced, “I think that you’d better come with me.”

Colonel Hook finished strapping on his Sam Brown belt and checked that his revolver was fully loaded. “What is it?” he asked following Mason.

“Hundreds of refugees are heading towards us, sir. They must’ve come from King’s Lynn.”

Hook and Mason arrived at the B Company position at the entrance to Fairfax. Refugees were spread out in a line in front of him stretching as far as the eye could see from left to right the line was at least twenty people deep and the crowd included men, women and children. There were hundreds of them. The mob carried large grubby white sheets hanging from branches.

Hook looked left and right at his men. Most of them were standing up, looking and pointing at the spectacular sight in front of them. Hardly anyone of them were in their foxholes and few of them were carrying any weapons. The refugees were still coming. They were less than three hundred yards away.

“Where are the Germans, Paul?” Hook asked, speaking to himself. “Battalion, stand to.” He grabbed Mason’s arm, “quickly, but quietly,” he whispered. Mason sped away, spreading the word.

Hook raised his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the crowd. He couldn’t spot any tell tale grey. Where could they be? They couldn’t have pulled out, surely? Two hundred yards away.

“R.S.M. Order them to halt.”

“Very good, sir,” R.S.M. Witherspoon snapped to attention and saluted. All of the Fusiliers were now in their foxholes, weapons at the ready. “Refugees-halt!” He bellowed.

The refugees kept coming. One hundred and fifty yards away.

“Gunner,” Hook tapped a machine gunner on his shoulder, “fire a burst above their heads.”

The machine gun burst shattered the morning stillness. The refugees started screaming. One hundred yards away. Every one hit the ground.

That was the signal. The S.S. troops crouching behind the refugees opened fire with their own machine guns, charging forward, firing from the hip. At the same time mortar rounds began falling on the RRiFF positions, throwing up showers of earth and grass, scoring direct hits on foxholes, adding flesh and blood to the debris. Some Fusiliers took cover in their foxholes whilst others fired back. “Rapid fire! Rapid fire!” The officers and N.C.O.s screamed.

Sam and Alan worked their bolts furiously, hardly taking aim before firing. The Germans were getting nearer. Seventy-five yards. Fifty yards. S.S. troopers falling, but more taking their places. A mortar round fell short and tore a gaping hole in the German ranks, felling soldiers like trees. Shrapnel whistled through the air and thudded into the trees above the RRiFF’ heads. A scream of pain. “My face! My face!” Shell splinters finding a target. The Germans charging on, bayonets fixed and glistening, shouting their war cries, throwing their grenades at the Fusilier positions. Here they come! An S.S. trooper ran towards Sam. Sam squeezed off a shot and caught him in the stomach. He fell over writhing and clutching his wounds. A second German appeared firing his Schmeisser machine gun from the hip. A RRiFF to the right of Sam crumpled and fell. Sam pointed his rifle at the S.S. man and squeezed the trigger. Click. An empty chamber. He was out of bullets. The German swung his Schmeisser towards him. Sam felt his bowels empty. “This is it,” he thought to himself.

“Hande hoch!” The S.S. trooper ordered, motioning with his machine gun.

Sam remembered his schoolboy German. He raised his arms above his head. It saved his life.

Hook led Battalion H.Q. in a counter attack with fixed bayonets. “Plug the gaps!” He shouted, “hold the line!” He screamed. He emptied his Schmeisser machine gun at a group of Germans charging towards him. Hook looked to his left and right. S.S. were breaking through everywhere. Fusiliers were streaming away from their positions and abandoning their weapons. Germans were tearing after them and shooting them in the back as the British tried to escape. RRiFFs were starting to surrender on their own, in pairs and in groups. It was no use. They’d put up a good fight. “Bugler, sound the cease fire,” Hook said calmly.

“Sir?” The bugler queried.

“The cease fire, son. Surrender. It’s all over.”

Hook raised his hands above his head. The bugle notes signaling the cease-fire sounded through the air. It was a universal symbol. The firing slackened in intensity and gradually died away as the soldiers stopped fighting.

Alan woke up with a massive headache. His ears were ringing and his temples were pounding. He was stiff and cold. He couldn’t move. He was paralyzed. His heartbeat sped up and his breathing quickened. He started to hyperventilate. Calm down, calm down, he said to himself. Check yourself. . He slowly flexed and stretched his fingers. Fine so far. He rotated his wrists. No problem. Alan bent his elbows. They seemed to work. He shrugged his shoulders. Everything seemed to be in ship shape. At least his upper body was. He tried his legs. He couldn’t move them. He tried to open his eyes. He couldn’t open them. He slowly raised his hands to his face. His eyes were dry and glued shut. “Please God,” he begged, “don’t let me be blind. Anything but that.” Alan blindly groped for the water bottle on his webbing belt. He found the bottle, unscrewed the top and poured some water on his hands. He splashed the water on his face, gently wiping the muck away from his eyes. He emptied the entire water bottle cleaning his face. He opened his eyes. He was not blind. He was sitting in his foxhole. A dead Fusilier was lying down head first in the foxhole trapping Alan’s legs. It was his blood that had glued Alan’s eyes shut. Alan pushed and pulled the RRiFF out, grunting and groaning as he did so. Alan looked at the dead man. He didn’t recognize him. He cautiously peered out over the edge of the foxhole. A sudden stab of intense pain hurt his temples. It was the sun, but at least the sun was setting. What time was it? He didn’t know. His watch was broken.