Young Lions (4 page)

Alan looked across at the field. Fusiliers were digging as Germans looked on. They were collecting bodies from all over the field and were carrying the corpses to the freshly dug graves. Burying the dead. Alan looked around him, searching for his rifle. He couldn’t find it. Alan looked around the RRiFF position. Plenty of dead Fusiliers, but no dead Germans. The burial party must’ve collected them. No weapons either. They must all have been collected. Alan suddenly remembered his captured Luger pistol, a spoil of war from the successful ambush at Wake. He patted it underneath his jacket to reassure himself.

“No rest!” a German barked. “Work! Schnell!” Sam was exhausted. They had spent the whole day burying the dead from the two battles of Fairfax. They had buried the German dead and now they were burying the civilians. Hundreds of refugees had been killed and wounded in the crossfire. The S.S. had loaded the shell-shocked survivors on to their lorries and had driven them away in the direction of King’s Lynn.

After they had buried the last civilian the Fusiliers were at last allowed to rest. They collapsed in an exhausted heap on the ground.

“What now?” Sam asked.

“Sleep,” Lance-Corporal Vincent answered.

“Alan could be alive though, couldn’t he, Lance-Corporal?” Sam asked Vincent. “I mean we haven’t found his body, have we?” He carried on. “That means that he could be alive.” Sam looked at Vincent quickly, his eyes darting away. Reassure me. Tell me what I want to hear. Tell me that Alan’s still alive.

“Sam lad,” Vincent said gently, “we haven’t found him, but that doesn’t mean that he’s alive,” he said, pointing to the other digging Fusiliers. “Don’t get your hopes up, Sam.”

“But he can’t be dead,” Sam said, “he can’t be…” He sank to his knees and rested his head on the spade handle. Vincent walked up behind him and placed his hands on Sam’s shoulders. “Chin up, lad. Here come the Huns. Don’t let them see you cry.” He put a finger under Sam’s chin and tilted it up.

“Yes, Lance-Corporal,” Sam answered quietly.

“That’s the spirit, lad,” Vincent smiled. “Stiff upper lip.”

“I’m bloody knackered,” Sam exclaimed, leaning on his spade. “When are going to get something to eat?” He moaned.

“I’m bloody starving too, lad,” Vincent said. “I don’t know.”

They had not eaten since the day before yesterday. The German attack had caught them at dawn before they had had time to eat breakfast and they had not had anything to eat since.

“We’re dealing with people who use women and children as human shields, Sam,” Vincent observed. “I don’t think that feeding us is a top priority.”

“I was afraid that you’d say that,” Sam said.

“Hallo?” Vincent asked.

“What’s going on?”

“The S.S. officer in charge is asking a question to a group of prisoners.”

They saw Captain Mason step forward. The S.S. officer spoke to him. Mason turned around; “Listen in men!” He bellowed. “We are to march back to the field where we will be fed.”

A spontaneous cheer. Mason smiled at his men. It was refreshing to be the bearer of good news for a change.

“Well, well, well,” Vincent said with a smile on his face, “life is full of surprises.” He turned towards Sam.

“About bloody time,” Sam said, his stomach grumbling as if on cue, “I could eat a horse.”

R.S.M Witherspoon marched the Fusiliers back to the field. “Come on lads, the birds are singing! The sun is shining!” Witherspoon marched beside the men, “stomachs in, chests out! Bags of oomph! Bags of oomph!” The RRiFFs perked up and reacted as one to Witherspoon’s familiar baritone words of encouragement. They were reassuring and comforting. “Show them that you’re Fusiliers!” The men marched off as if they were on the Parade Ground, determined to show the Germans that they were still soldiers.

One man started whistling “Colonel Bogey.” More RRiFFs joined in. Soon they were all singing the familiar song:

“Hitler

Has only got one ball,

Goering has two

But very small,

Himmler

Has something similar,

But poor old Goebbels

Has no balls at all.”

The Fusiliers marched into a field with Lieutenant-Colonel Hook in the lead with his swagger stick stuck under his arm. Witherspoon called a halt. As if on cue, German Army lorries arrived and parked with their rears facing the RRiFFs. The Fusiliers cheered. S.S. troops positioned themselves at the rear of the lorries to help unload the food.

“That’s a lot of lorries, Lance-Corporal,” Sam observed.

“Well, Sam,” Vincent said, “there’s a lot of us,” pointing to the other RRiFFs, “there’s well over a hundred of us and there’ll be food in there for the Jerries as well.”

“Oh yes,” Sam conceded, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“What’s for breakfast, Jerry?” A Fusilier good naturedly asked the S.S. officer in command.

“Lead, Tommy,” he replied. The S.S. officer swung the Schmessier machine gun up in an arc and sprayed a stream of bullets, catching the RRiFF in the chest and throwing him backwards like a rag doll.

The S.S. troops dropped the lorry tailgates with a loud sudden bang. The machine guns inside opened up, their crews methodically sweeping the barrels from left to right. The MG 42 machine guns spat out 1200 rounds per minute and tore great strips through the unarmed Fusiliers knocking them down like ten pins. Groaning in heaps and dying silently on their own. Head wounds, stomach wounds, leg and arm wounds. The crews traversed their machine guns from left to right until no one was left standing. Gradually the screaming and the shouting died out to be replaced by moaning and crying.

“Run, Sam! Run!” Vincent screamed. Sam ran until his chest was bursting, until his lungs were screaming for oxygen. A machine gun burst stitched a line of holes in the wall of the house to his left. He didn’t know where he was going. Anywhere out of here. He was in Fairfax. I can hide in Fairfax, he thought to himself. Another burst. A yell of pain. “Keep going, Sam!” Vincent shouted his voice hoarse with pain. As Sam turned around he saw a German fifty yards behind him. Firing a burst point blank into Vincent’s back as he ran past.

“Bastard!” Sam thought. No time to grieve. Keep running. Another burst. Sam tripped and fell. He lay on the ground. Where’s the pain? I feel nothing. Am I paralyzed? Am I dying? Is this what it’s like? His brain was still working. Not another burst. Three single shots. From ahead of him. Not behind. Sam looked over his shoulder. The German lying flat on his back. A gaping hole in the centre of his chest. Sam turned back to the front.

“What the hell’s going on?” Lindau asked as he got out of the lorry.

It was painfully obvious. S.S. troops were wandering around the field which was covered in a carpet of British dead. They were firing at point blank range into the heads of the wounded to finish them off.

Von Schnakenberg spotted the S.S. officer in charge and stomped up to him.

“Hauptsturmfuhrer, what is going on here?” von Schnakenberg demanded.

The S.S. officer looked at von Schnakenberg as if he was the local village idiot. “The prisoners tried to escape, sir.”

“‘Tried to escape?’”

“Yes, sir.”

“Over one hundred prisoners tried to escape? All at once? One hundred unarmed prisoners being guarded by thirty S.S. soldiers armed with six machine guns tried to escape?” Von Schnakenberg shook his head in disbelief.

“Yes, sir.” Hauptsturmfuhrer Zorn stuck to his guns.

Von Schnakenberg had the distinct feeling that Zorn did not care one way or another whether von Schnakenberg believed him or not. “Hauptsturmfuhrer, what were your orders?”

“To take care of the prisoners, sir.”

“To take care of the prisoners?” Lindau mimicked the S.S. officer. “You were doing a pretty good job of ‘taking care of the prisoners’ when we arrived.” He spat the words out with disgust.”

“Listen to you,” Zorn snapped, “you make me sick. It’s no wonder that we lost the War.” It had been a long, hot, thirsty morning. Slaughtering prisoners was an extremely stressful business and Zorn had finally lost his temper. “Brigadefuhrer Schuster was right. We should have finished off all of you aristo pigs at the end of the War.” Zorn ranted and raved.

“How dare you!” Lindau shouted. His face turned crimson and he took one step forward. He heard an ominous click as Zorn flicked off his safety catch and pointed his Luger at Lindau.

There was an answering clang as Feldwebel Alfonin, Wilhelm von Schnakenberg’s old Platoon Feldwebel, cocked his Schmeisser machine gun, sending a round into the chamber. “I’d think twice if I was you, Hauptsturmfuhrer,” Alfonin said menacingly as he stepped in front of Lindau.

S.S. troopers moved protectively towards Zorn and raised their weapons to waist height, flicking off their safety catches.

Von Schnakenberg’s soldiers cocked their weapons and pointed them at the S.S.

No one said anything. No one did anything. A Mexican stand off. Everyone realized that one hasty move could spark off a firefight. But Zorn only had a platoon of thirty men whereas von Schnakenberg had several hundred. It was a no win situation for Zorn.

Zorn realized that he had bitten off more than he could chew. He knew that he had to quickly think of a way to get both him and his men out of a swiftly deteriorating situation. Hopefully without losing face. The honour of the S.S. was at stake. But he was rapidly running out of time. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead.

Zorn made up his mind. There was no way out. He flicked on his safety catch and lowered his Luger “Lower your weapons, men,” he ordered over his shoulder.

“Drop your weapons!” von Schnakenberg barked.

The S.S. men hesitated.

Alfonin fired a Schmeisser burst above their heads. The S.S. dropped their weapons and raised their hands in the air.

“Now get on your lorries,” von Schnakenberg said, his voice laced with venom, “and don’t come back.”

“But the British..?” Zorn protested. “Without our weapons we won’t be able to defend ourselves…” His eyes bulged wide with horror.

“The British will give you the same chances that you gave them.” von Schnakenberg pointed to the sea of dead British soldiers with his Luger.

Zorn’s men sheepishly boarded their lorries, crest fallen and humiliated. Zorn hung out of the lorry cab and turned to von Schnakenberg. “We won’t forget this insult, Oberstleutnant.” He stared at von Schnakenberg with eyes full of hate. “The S.S. has a long memory. We’ll be back,” he threatened.

“I look forward to it.” von Schnakenberg replied.

Chapter Three
 

Von Schnakenberg drove into Hereward with his mixed convoy of motorcyclists and Grenadiers. He was challenged at the edge of the town by a paratrooper roadblock. The convoy was cheered by groups of grinning and cheering paras as they drove into the centre of the town. Von Schnakenberg had absolutely no trouble finding the Town Hall because he knew the layout of Hereward like the back of his hand. He had been studying a map and scale model of the town for months before the invasion.

The convoy pulled up in the Town Square and von Schnakenberg and Lindau climbed down from their lorry cabs. Von Schnakenberg gave orders to his company commanders to get their men out of their lorries and allow them to stretch their legs. However, he emphasized that he wanted them to remain alert and remain focused. Von Schnakenberg did not know if the Square and the town were secure yet and didn’t want to take any chances.

Von Schnakenberg and Lindau walked up the stairs to the Town Hall past heavily sand bagged positions guarded by paratroopers. It looked as if the British defenders of the Town Hall, if there had been any, had given in without putting up much of a fight. Certainly the Town Hall and the Square showed no obvious signs of damage. The paratrooper guards seemed to have the situation well in hand and looked confident, but vigilant at the same time. Von Schnakenberg stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around to look over the Square. Hereward appeared to be safe, secure and under control. A huge Swastika flag already fluttered from the flagpole above the Town Hall.

Von Schnakenberg climbed up the stairs to the fourth floor and walked along the corridor to what he knew was the mayor’s office. He stopped and knocked on the door. He was not looking forward to the meeting. The Town Hall was now the headquarters of Task Force Schuster and the mayor’s office was now Schuster’s personal office.

Schuster was leaning over a map on the Mayor’s desk with a group of senior S.S. officers and some paratrooper officers.

“BrigadeFuhrer…” von Schnakenberg started.

Schuster raised a finger in the air and cut von Schnakenberg dead. He hadn’t even lifted his eyes from the map.

Lindau looked like he was about to explode. Von Schnakenberg grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the balcony windows. He hoped that the cold September air would cool them both down. Von Schnakenberg opened the French windows that led out to the balcony. He smiled with satisfaction at the sight that greeted him. The Town Square was full of lorries as far as the eye could see. Soldiers milled about on the cobblestones like so many ants. They almost hid from view the First World War cenotaph in the centre. Surrounding the Square on three sides were handsome medieval buildings made of a mixture of brick and stone. They served as a mix of government offices, banks, shops, restaurants and cafes. Dominating the entire east side of the Square was Hereward Cathedral. Although he had seen photos of the building, von Schnakenberg was amazed by how magnificent it looked and how massive it was. The Cathedral had been built during the reign of William the Conqueror nearly nine hundred years before.