Young Lions Roar (13 page)

Von Schnakenberg nodded. “I fully understood your concerns, Bratge, and I have discussed this precise issue on many occasions with my colleagues. I also think that we may have bitten off
more than we can chew but ‘ours not to reason why’, Sergeant Major.”

“It’s the ‘ours but to do or die’ that I object to, sir. If I’m to do or die I at least like to know that there’s a reasonable chance of success before I put
my neck on the line.”

“You’re familiar with the works of Tennyson, Hauptwachtmeister? You’re a poetry fan?” Von Schnakenberg swivelled around to face his Sergeant Major.

“I may only be a humble policeman, sir, but I am not a complete philistine.”

Von Schnakenberg laughed. “Touché, my dear Bratge.”

“It’s just that I was at Verdun in the last war, sir: I am painfully aware of what it is like to feel that the High Command are squandering our lives and throwing us away like so
much confetti. I’m not prepared to go through that again and I’m not prepared for my men to go through that again either, sir. Once is quite enough for several lifetimes.”

Von Schnakenberg nodded sombrely. “I couldn’t agree with you more, Hauptwachtmeister, and I salute the sacrifices that you and your comrades made on that bloody battlefield for the
Fatherland.”

Bratge bowed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now, onto the matter in hand: we may not be able to influence what’s going on in headquarters in Berlin, but we can bloody well influence what goes on in Hereward.” The
general pointed at Bratge. “I want the two Spaniards found and I want them found today. Not tomorrow, not next week. Today. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Bratge came to a position of attention.

“And Bratge?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ve changed my mind: I want them dead or alive. I’m tired of pussyfooting around. Let’s show them that we mean business. Hereward is my town, not the SS’s, not
the Resistance, and certainly not the Spaniard’s. Comprendes?”

“Si, Jefe!”

“Bueno. Dismissed!”

“Repeat your orders, Sturmbannführer Ulrich,” Brigadeführer Herold ordered.

“My mission is to capture the two Spaniards and if that is not possible then I am to kill them.” Ulrich stated. “On no account am I to allow the Army to capture the two
Spaniards alive.”

Herold stood directly in front of Ulrich, eyeball to eyeball. “Very good, Sturmbannführer.” Herold walked back to his desk.

A moment’s hesitation. “Sir, may I ask…”

“No you bloody well may not, Ulrich! This is not a bloody trade union meeting!” Herold slammed both of his hands on the tabletop.

“Sir, it would just make it easier to…” Ulrich persisted.

“Ulrich, on a need-to-know basis, you don’t need to know a God damned thing! You will carry out your orders, Sturmbannführer, or I will find someone who is capable of following
my orders without questioning my authority!” Herold’s face was scarlet with barely-contained rage, and he looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel.

“Yes, Brigadeführer.” Ulrich clicked his heels together and bowed in submission. “Of course I will carry out your orders, sir, without question. I was out of line, sir,
and it won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it was out of line, Ulrich and if it happens again I will have you shot,” Herold threatened. “I know that you’re known as ‘The Cat’
but I doubt that you’d be able to survive a firing squad at point-blank range.”

“Yes, sir.” Ulrich bowed again.

Herold swivelled his chair and looked out of the window.

Ulrich coughed. “I have one more question, sir.”

“It better be a good one, Ulrich, you’ve nearly used up all of your nine lives.”

“What do I do if the Wehrmacht refuse to hand over their prisoners to me?”

Silence.

Herold swivelled his chair to look out of the window again. “Use your initiative, Ulrich,” Herold said over his shoulder. “After all, that’s what you’re paid for,
isn’t it?”

“This is the Military Police! You are completely surrounded! Come out with your hands up!” Hauptwachtmeister Bratge ordered through his loud hailer.

“Sweet Mary, Jesus and Joseph!” Corporal Miguel Pizarro exclaimed as he leapt out of bed. “It’s the pigs! How the hell did they sneak up on us like that? Didn’t you
spot them, Alfonso?”

Private Alfonso de Cervantes rubbed his eyes blearily and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jefe. I fell asleep,” he said, shamefaced.

“You fell asleep?” Pizarro’s eyes blazed. “You stupid bastard, we may be soon be sleeping forever because of you!” The corporal grabbed his Schmessier submachine
gun from his bedside table.

“I’m sorry, Jefe: it won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again, because soon we’ll be dead.” Pizarro slowly crawled on his hands and knees towards the window and carefully looked over
the window ledge. He didn’t like what he saw. Two lorries were parked across the road immediately opposite the entrance to the Spaniard’s terraced apartment block, and they provided
protection to the twenty or so MPs who sheltered behind them. Pizarro cautiously looked up and down the length and breadth of the street. A lorry with another squad of a dozen or so men blocked
each end of the street.

“How the hell did they find us, Jefe?” De Cervantes asked, as he stuffed extra magazines of ammunition and as many grenades as he could possibly carry into his trouser and jacket
pockets.

“How the hell should I know?” Pizarro replied angrily. “Wait a minute…” He slowly raised his head and looked down at their car that was parked just outside the
entrance to the apartment block. The car which they had intended to use that very morning to drive back to London, “Christ… I don’t believe it.”

“What is it?”

“Diplomatic plates…” Pizarro replied in disgust. “Our Bolivian ID cards might have been perfect, but we forgot to replace our Spanish diplomatic number plates for
Bolivian ones.”

“Christ almighty…!”

“The Germans must have driven around the town searching for us and spotted our Spanish number plates.”

A pause to reflect. “What now, Jefe?”

“What now, Alfonzo?” Pizarro smiled. “What else? We fight! To the death! Viva la Legión! Viva España!” The corporal smashed the window with the barrel of
his Schmessier 9 millimetre submachine gun and fired a burst of bullets at the nearest bunch of MPs, whilst de Cervantes copied him.

Bratge ducked as the bullets shattered the window of the lorry cab door, sending shards of sharp glass flying through the air in every direction. The man standing beside Bratge
yelped as razor-sharp fragments impaled themselves in his body, and he frantically and futilely clawed at his face as he tried to find and remove the shards with his hook-like fingers. He was still
trying to take out the pieces of broken glass when the next burst of machine gun fire cut him down.

Bratge ducked again as two objects landed with an ominous thud in the open topped lorry. “Grenade!” he shouted. The force of the explosion killed and wounded the half a dozen or so
MPs standing behind the lorry. Bratge looked down at the bloody and broken bodies of his men in horror, and knew that most of them would not get up again. Bratge looked at his surviving MPs who
were cowering on the ground, taking shelter behind the other lorry. “Get up, you bastards! Start firing at the windows!” Bratge kicked the nearest soldier in the ass and physically
pulled the others to their feet. “Open fire! Open fire!” he shouted frantically.

“More of the same, I think, Alfonso.”

“Very good, Jefe.”

Another two grenades flew through the air and landed in the second open-topped lorry. The explosion knocked the surviving MPs down like skittles and they lay in an untidy heap
on the pavement, twitching and moaning.

“Christ!” Ulrich exclaimed in his disbelief as he lowered his binoculars. “They’ve wiped out the MPs…”

“What are we going to do, sir?” the sergeant who was second in command of the squad asked.

“We’re going to reinforce the MP’s position, Scharführer Gersdorff. The MPs are combat ineffective,” Ulrich answered as he looked at the shattered and torn bodies
that were still smoking. “We can’t do anything here, Scharführer. The Spaniards are bound to make a break for it any second. That’s what I’d do if I was
them.”

“What about Obersturmführer Monat, sir?” Gersdorff pointed at the lorry that was blocking the opposite end of the street.

“We’ll go first, and then we’ll cover Obersturmführer Monat when he moves,” Ulrich answered. “I’ll go first with half the squad and you cover me,
Scharführer, and then you come to my position and I’ll cover you. Understood? “

“Understood, Sturmbannführer.”

“Very well.” Ulrich smiled and squeezed Gersdorff’s shoulder. “Pass the word, Scharführer. First five men, forward on my command.”

“Alfonso, I think that we’ve wiped out the pigs!” Pizarro shouted.

De Cervantes nodded. “What’s the plan, Jefe?”

“We burst out of the front door all guns blazing, get in the car, and get the hell out of Hereward. How does that sound?”

De Cervantes grinned. “Sounds good to me, Jefe.”

Pizarro paused. “Alfonso, we can’t let them take us alive. The Gestapo…”

“I understand, Jefe,” De Cervantes interrupted. “They would torture us and connect us to Major Mendoza.”

Pizarro nodded. “Are you ready?”

De Cervantes grinned. “I was born ready.”

“Forward!” Ulrich ordered.

Five stormtroopers followed hot on Ulrich’s heels as the Sturmbannführer sprinted the one hundred metres to the MP’s position. Gersdorff’s remaining five SS soldiers
provided covering fire and shot at the apartment windows on the second floor where the Spaniards had been sheltering.

At that precise moment the two Spaniards burst out of the front door of the apartment block and almost collided with the running stormtroopers. Pizarro and De Cervantes were
the first to recover and opened fire at almost point-blank range with their Schmessiers, and cut down three of the surprised Germans before they had time to react. Ulrich opened fire with his
machine gun and drilled a neat line of holes across Pizarro’s front. De Cervantes continued running to the car door, but when he realised that Pizarro had been shot he turned around and was
shot in the stomach by one of the surviving stormtroopers.

“Cease fire!” Ulrich ordered.

The two surviving SS troopers pointed their weapons at the wounded Spaniards.

De Cervantes slowly crawled on his stomach towards Pizarro, leaving a trail of blood on the road like a wounded snail.

Ulrich turned around as he heard Gersdorff and the rest of the squad run up to his position. “Check the Spaniards, Scharführer,” Ulrich ordered. “Remember our orders: we
want them alive if possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Obersturmführer Monat?” Ulrich shouted.

“Yes, sir?” Monat replied from the second road block.

“Check the MPs for survivors, and get some ambulances.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alfonso… Alfonso…” Pizarro rasped through blood-clenched teeth.

“Yes, Jefe,” De Cervantes replied as he coughed up a globule of blood. “I’m here.”

“Remember what we talked about?”

“Yes, Jefe,” De Cervantes nodded.

“Good man.” Pizarro smiled through a mouthful of blood. “It’s been a pleasure and a privilege, Alfonzo…”

“The pleasure has been all mine, Miguel.”

“Are you ready?”

De Cervantes smiled. “Like I’ve always told you, Jefe: I was born ready.”

“All right, Pedro,” Gersdorff said as he aimed his machine gun at the two wounded Spaniards. “Hang on; you’re going to be okay. Help is on its
way.”

“Hey, Adolf,” De Cervantes said. “I’ve got a present for you. Come over here.”

Gersdorff was intrigued as he knelt down beside the dying Spaniard. “What is it, Pedro?”

De Cervantes put something in Gersdorff’s hand and wrapped the German’s fingers around it. The Spaniard grasped Pizarro’s bloody hands in his own, and they shouted together in
unison at the top of their voices, “Viva La Legión! Viva España!”

Gersdorff opened his fingers. “Oh shit.”

Gersdorff barely had time to recognise that he was holding a grenade-pin in his hand when the bomb exploded. The blast instantly killed Gersdorff and De Cervantes and also
detonated the half a dozen grenades that the Spaniard had been carrying in his jacket and trouser pockets. The secondary blasts also set off the grenades that Pizarro had been carrying in his
pockets. The resulting explosion sent shrapnel flying in every direction and killed and wounded everyone standing within a radius of one hundred metres of the blast.

When the smoke and dust had finally settled, Hauptwachtmeister Bratge emerged phoenix-like from the bodies of his dead and dying MPs. His uniform was ripped and torn and was
hanging off him in shredded strips of material. His helmet had been blasted off his head and blood was streaming down his dirt-encrusted face. Bratge walked as if he was in a trance and he stumbled
from blackened body to blackened body searching for survivors, to no avail. All of the twenty or so SS stormtroopers were dead. They had gathered around the wounded Spaniards and they had all been
killed in the initial blast when De Cervantes’s grenades had exploded. Bratge reached the spot where the two Spaniards had been lying. There was absolutely nothing left of their bodies except
a giant black smear on the road. They had been completely vaporised when the ten grenades that they had been carrying had exploded, and there wasn’t enough left of their bodies to fill a
shoebox.

A wounded MP stumbled up to Bratge. He was cradling a broken arm with his good hand. His mouth was opening and closing, but Bratge could not hear what he was saying. Slowly the
ringing in his ears subsided, and the fog in Bratge’s head lifted.

“What now, Hauptwachtmeister?” the young MP asked. “What do we do now?”

Bratge put a reassuring hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “Check for survivors, Nietzsche, and administer immediate first aid; if any of our men are walking wounded then tell one of
them to go and fetch help; find an ambulance.”