Young Lions Roar (18 page)

“Were they able to identify the nationality of the rapists?”

“They said that the rapists were British, sir,” Bratge replied.

“How convenient.” Von Schnakenberg swirled his whiskey filled crystal tumbler.

“Both of the rapists were shot from behind in the head and one of them was also shot twice from behind in the back. Their heads were virtually blown apart because they were shot at
virtually point-blank range and their faces were unrecognisable, sir.”

“How did Mendoza manage to shoot them? I presume that he was tied up when they were raping his daughter?” Von Schnakenberg asked.

Bratge nodded. “Yes he was, sir. However, Mendoza said that the two rapists had obviously never been Boy Scouts and they couldn’t tie knots for love of money. They were too busy
concentrating on raping Aurora to notice that Mendoza had slowly but surely been unloosening his ropes.”

“How did he manage to get a weapon?”

“Mendoza said that he had a Luger pistol taped underneath the seat of his chair for emergency use.”

“How very cloak and dagger,” von Schnakenberg said. “What do you think, Hauptwachtmeister? Is his story plausible?”

Bratge shook his head. “Mendoza has obviously never read any Sherlock Holmes novels, sir. His story has more holes in it than a chunk of Swiss cheese. These rapists must have been
professionals to force entry to the house, kill the housekeeper and overpower Mendoza, sir, a man who has been a soldier for the last twenty years and no doubt must know a thing or two about close
quarter and hand-to-hand unarmed combat. It seems likely that the rapists have done this sort of thing before, sir. Perhaps they were serial rapists. It certainly seems like a professional job.
I’m certain that they would know how to tie good, strong, solid knots of rope. They had also beaten Mendoza pretty badly and he was concussed and he had lost a lot of blood by the time that
the Police brought him to the hospital. One of his eyes was more or less glued shut with dried blood.”

“So how did Mendoza manage to escape from his ropes unnoticed, find and make ready his weapon, and aim and fire four well-aimed rounds whilst he was concussed, with one eye glued shut with
blood, and kill the rapists?” von Schnakenberg asked.

“That’s the six million Mark question, sir.” Bratge smiled. “I don’t think Mendoza did free himself, sir. I don’t think that he was in any fit state to shoot
those two men. I think that Mendoza was rescued by someone who shot the two rapists and then untied and released him.”

“But by whom?” von Schnakenberg asked. “The XVIIth Bandera - sorry, the 1
^st
LVE - doesn’t arrive in Hereward until the end of next week and I thought that the
Spanish Embassy wasn’t able to send any reinforcements to Mendoza.”

“Perhaps his rescuers were British, sir.”

“British?” Von Schnakenberg raised his eyebrows. “Mendoza has hardly lived in Hereward for a month, Hauptwachtmeister. He would barely have found the time to get to know the
town. Where would he have found the time to get to know a local with a gun?” Von Schnakenberg paused with thought for a moment. “Do you have any suspects, Hauptwachtmeister?”

Bratge shook his head. “No, sir. I have absolutely no idea who freed Mendoza and killed the two rapists.”

“So the trail runs cold yet again. How bloody frustrating, Hauptwachtmeister.” Von Schnakenberg shook his head.

Bratge flashed his set of pearly whites. “Not quite, sir.”

“Oh, what do you mean?” Von Schnakenberg sat up in his seat with renewed interest.

Bratge passed von Schnakenberg an A4-sized brown manila envelope.

“What’s this, Hauptwachtmeister?” Von Schnakenberg asked with raised eyebrows.

“An early Christmas present, sir,” Bratge replied mysteriously.

Von Schnakenberg impatiently tore open the envelope. Six black and white photographs fell out onto the desk. Von Schnakenberg picked up the first photo. He looked at it in confusion. “What
the hell is this? A letter?”

Bratge nodded as he enjoyed the air of suspense. “Yes, sir. It’s the letter ‘A’ written in gothic script. It was found tattooed on the underside of the left arm by the
armpit of one of the rapists.”

Von Schnakenberg picked up another photo with mounting excitement. “Another letter A tattooed on the underside of the left arm by the armpit?”

“Yes, sir.” Bratge could not resist smiling. “Blood groups.”

Von Schnakenberg picked up the other four photos in quick succession. ‘My honour is my loyalty?’ ”

“Yes, sir. Both mottoes were tattooed onto the upper right arm of both of the rapists.”

“And a Death’s Head skull and cross bones with the stylised runes underneath.”

“Yes, sir. Tattooed onto the upper left arm of both men, which would suggest that they went to the same tattoo artist.”

“SS” von Schnakenberg looked like a cat that had got the cream.

“Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s standard SS procedure to tattoo all stormtroopers with their blood group in case the soldier is wounded and requires a blood transfusion.”
Bratge smiled in triumph.

“So the SS are raping children now. Why does that not surprise me?” Von Schnakenberg shook his head with disgust. “No doubt they would have killed Mendoza’s daughter
afterwards and made Mendoza watch before they killed him as well.”

“Probably, sir.”

Von Schnakenberg’s face darkened with barely suppressed fury and rage.

“The SS have no honour, they have no code. They blacken the name of the German armed forces and their despicable actions tarnish us all with the same brush,” von Schnakenberg said,
with venom in his voice. In an instant the anger and hatred vanished from von Schnakenberg’s face as if a shadow had lifted. He smiled at the Sergeant Major and shook his head in awe and
wonder. “I’ve got to hand it to you though, Hauptwachtmeister, what an amazing piece of detective work. I would not be surprised if you start another career in the Police when this War
is over, Bratge. Detective Inspector Bratge of Scotland Yard,” von Schnakenberg chuckled.

Bratge’s chest puffed out with pride as he replied, “I have seriously thought about it, sir.”

“How did you find out all of this information?” von Schnakenberg asked curiously.

Bratge shrugged his shoulders modestly. “I have a contact at the Police station in Hereward, sir. It’s amazing the way that a couple of bottles of schnapps can help loosen
tongues.”

“And the photographs?”

“I suggested that the Police photographer take those, sir. The photos cost me three bottles of schnapps.”

Von Schnakenberg thought for a moment. “Do the Police know that the rapists are SS stormtroopers?”

“Yes, sir. And they also know the names of the rapists.”

“Mein Gott!” Von Schnakenberg sat up straight with surprise. “How on earth did they find that out?”

“The Second in Command of the 4
^th
SS Infantry Regiment requested that the Police help in the search for three scharführers from the regiment who had left Hereward to go on
weekend leave to London but who had not returned…”

“The 4
^th
SS? But isn’t that Sturmbannführer Ulrich’s regiment?”

Bratge nodded. “Yes, sir. Sturmbannführer Ulrich is the second in command…”

“Does he have his sticky little paws in everything?” von Schnakenberg interrupted. “Wasn’t he involved in the Queen Alexandra Road bombing?”

“Yes, sir. He was virtually the only sole survivor.”

“No wonder that he’s known as The Cat.” Von Schnakenberg shook his head in amazement.

“It’s standard procedure for both ourselves and the SS to ask the Police to assist in the search for missing personnel, sir.”

Von Schnakenberg nodded in confirmation of the familiar fact, and took a drink of his whiskey.

“The three missing scharführers were called Hauser, Berlichingen and Schmitt, sir. Both Hauser and Berlichingen had A blood groups and Schmitt has a B blood group. All three men were
platoon sergeants in Hauptsturmführer von Stein’s company, sir, along with Scharführer Kophamel who was killed in the King Alfred Hotel bombing.”

“So the vendetta continues. A plague upon both their houses!” Von Schnakenberg slapped his desk with the palms of both of his hands in frustration. “For bringing such death and
destruction to my city!” Von Schnakenberg stood up and started to pace around his office.

Bratge did not react to the General-Major’s uncharacteristic loss of self control.

“Hauser and Berlichingen were the two dead rapists, Hauptwachtmeister Bratge. The question is: where is Schmitt?”

“Aurora! It’s so good to see you. But I didn’t expect to see you out and about so soon.” Sam gave Aurora the gentlest of hugs and kissed her delicately on both
cheeks.

“It’s good to see you as well, Sam.” Aurora held onto Sam’s forearms in order to steady herself.

“How do you feel?” Sam asked with concern.

“It’s good to be up on my feet again. As you know, I was consigned to my bed in the hospital for a week.”

“Yes, I know. Remember when I came to visit you? You had been in for a few days.”

Aurora held a hand up to her forehead. “Ah, yes. I forgot.” Aurora smiled. “I must be losing my marbles in my old age.”

“Either that or you were still pumped high on morphine.”

Aurora laughed. “Yes, that as well. I feel like a Chinese opium addict. I’m still on painkillers four times a day. Listen, Sam, do you mind if we find somewhere private where we can
sit down and talk? It’s just that I find it painful to stand for long periods of time.”

“Of course, Aurora. Here.” Sam guided Aurora over to a bench and supported her as they sat down.

“Does it still hurt?” Sam asked.

Aurora nodded as she laid her hand on top of Sam’s. “Yes, it does. I can only walk very slowly and I have to sleep lying very still on my back. The doctors warned me that I had to be
aware that my stitches could still rip if I walk too fast and that my scar could still separate.” Aurora paused. “That Nazi really hurt me, Sam.”

Sam’s face turned crimson with rage. “I swear as God as my witness, Aurora, that we will pay those murdering Nazi bastards back for all of the crimes that they have committed against
us. We will make each and every one of those swine rue the day that they were born.”

“You really hate the Germans, don’t you, Sam?”

Sam nodded. “The Germans murdered my mother and my father. The Germans made me and Alice orphans. I hate the Germans when I wake up in the morning and I hate them when I go to sleep. I
even hate the Germans in my dreams.” Sam paused. “Hatred is all I have left now, Aurora.”

“That is sad, Sam.” Aurora looked Sam directly in the eyes. “And what of love, Sam? Is there any room for love?”

Sam straightened up. “I love my God, my King and my country. And I love my friends and family. But hatred is a stronger emotion than love: hatred makes me feel alive and gives me the
motivation to keep fighting rather than surrender.”

Aurora nodded in understanding. “I hate the Germans as well, Sam, for what they did to me, what they did to Spain and also for what they continue to do to Britain.” Aurora paused.
“Will you help me when I decide to exact my revenge on them?”

“Of course, Aurora.” Sam’s eyes lit up with excitement. “What do you have in mind?”

“I don’t know yet.” Aurora replied as she patted Sam’s hand. “But I’ll think of something. Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

Brigadeführer Herold stood at the front of the stage, gripping a captured British Army officer’s swagger stick in both of his hands. “Gentlemen, I invited you
all here today because I have a very important announcement to make.” The assembled officers of the Triple S brigade were sitting on the edges of their seats with excitement. “Der Tag
has finally arrived. Operation Thor - the invasion of Scotland - will take place on June 22
^nd
in exactly one month’s time.” An electric current of excitement surged through
the officers as they heard the news and made them sit ramrod straight in their chairs as if they had been hit by a bolt of lightning. Herold waited patiently for his officers to calm down and
settle themselves before he continued. “As you know, gentlemen, our mission was to carry out a river crossing and capture the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. That mission has now changed and will
no longer be carried out by our Brigade. That mission has been re-tasked to our brothers in arms in Hereward, General-Major von Schnakenberg’s Brigade.” There was a murmur of discontent
from the assembled officers. The Triple S thought that an evil stepsister was a more accurate description of their Wehrmacht fellow occupiers than brothers in arms. “Our new mission is to
capture and hold until relieved two bridges over the Beattie Canal and the Auchterlonie River, and also the village of Robinson.” Herold walked over to the rear of the stage and pulled a
large piece of black material that concealed the back wall. The black sheet floated to the floor of the stage, revealing a massive five metre by five metre map of the Scottish-English border from
the west to the east coast. There was a sharp intake of breath from the officers as they marvelled at the impressive detail of the map, which had been painstakingly and patiently copied and
enlarged by the Brigade’s own cartographers from the Engineering unit.

“As you can see, there are only two roads which are capable of carrying our panzers - the Carlisle to Gretna road on the west coast which leads onto Glasgow, and the Newcastle to
Berwick-upon-Tweed road on the east coast which leads on to Edinburgh. Both of these roads are double carriageway. There are another half a dozen or so roads that also cross over the border, but
they are all single track and are completely unsuitable for our panzers. So it is of absolutely vital importance that we capture these roads. If we do not capture and hold onto these roads then the
entire invasion will fail. However, we are not concerned with the ways and means that our comrades on the west coast will utilise to capture their targets. Nor are we concerned with the methods
that General-Major von Schnakenberg will use to capture Berwick-upon-Tweed. Any questions so far, gentlemen?”