Young Lions Roar (22 page)

Mason paused before he spoke again. “The third question is: how did this ‘military equipment enthusiast’ acquire a live German round? The Germans don’t exactly hand them
out on request. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty certain that the penalty for being found with live German ammunition is death.” Mason paused to let the weight of his words
sink in, before he continued. “What did this War junkie have to do in order to obtain this live round?” Mason waved the bullet around again mere inches away from the boys’ noses.
It was so close that they could smell the oil on the round’s casing.

The boys could not think of a rational explanation that would not arouse suspicion.

“You’ll notice how carefully I’m holding the bullet: I daresay that it would be reasonably simple to lift a fingerprint from the casing. I am sure that my colleagues in the
Gestapo would be all too happy to oblige a request from a fellow Fascist to investigate a possible lead to the Resistance. All they would have to do is to fingerprint all of the students who
regularly use this classroom. Then Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt. I’m sure that a short visit to Gestapo headquarters would soon loosen the tongue of even the most reluctant
suspect, what do you boys think?”

Sam and Alan looked as if they were about to faint.

Mason carefully put the bullet back into the plastic packet and put it back into his tweed jacket pocket. He gave the bulge a couple of pats and looked at the boys once more. “Of course it
doesn’t have to come to that, does it, boys?”

None of the boys answered.

“I mean I may be a traitor,” he looked directly at Sam, “but I’m not a complete bastard. I mean they are my students, after all. I don’t want to see one of my boys
hauled before the Gestapo and subjected to their rather medieval interrogation techniques any more than you do. I mean, for one thing, can you imagine the letters of complaint that we would get
from the parents? What ever happened to little Johnny’s fingernails? Why can’t he write any more? Why can’t he walk anymore? Why can’t he talk anymore?” Mason looked
at the boys before he continued. “It would be a public relations disaster for the school, which would be sure to adversely affect our admission numbers. In the present financial situation
we’ve got to pay close attention to our marketing, don’t we? After all, I don’t want to bite the hand that feeds me, so for the sake of the school I’m willing to forget
about the mysterious bullet… for now.”

The boys could not help breathe a massive sigh of relief. Mason had them both over a barrel, and both he and the boys knew it.

“On one condition,” Mason continued menacingly.

Mason gave both of the boys a piece of A4 sized paper.

“What’s… what’s this, sir?” Alan asked.

Sam recoiled in horror. “It’s a bloody application form to join the Fascist Militia!” Sam shook the piece of paper in front of Mason’s face. “If you think for one
moment that you can blackmail me into…!”

Alan snatched the piece of paper out of Sam’s hand. “The two application forms will be on your desk first thing tomorrow morning, sir.”

“Hey, give that back!” Sam protested as he futilely tried to grab the application form from Alan.

Alan had to physically drag Sam kicking and screaming away from their teacher.

“They’d better be, Alan,” Mason warned. “I’d hate to be the bearer of bad news. I don’t want to have to write to your parents in Hong Kong in order to tell
them that their son and heir had been arrested by the Gestapo.”

“I’ll kill him, I’ll kill, him!” Sam punched his hand in frustration as tears rolled down his face.

“Yes, Sam.” Alan put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We both will. But first of all we have to get authorisation from Edinburgh. Agreed?”

“Yes, and then we kill him,” Sam nodded his head as he wiped the tears away from his face with the back of his hand. “When?”

“After Edinburgh gives us the green light. Tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe it. Edinburgh must be out of their minds.” Sam made no attempt to disguise his disgust and he dropped the piece of paper on the floor as if
it was cursed.

Alan bent down to pick it up. He carefully read the message and then he read it again to make sure that he hadn’t made any errors. “I don’t believe it,” he said as he
shook his head in horror. “This must be a mistake.”

“I’m afraid that there’s no mistake, Alan. I’ve checked the message twice,” Alice said with her finger hovering above the Morse code key. “Do you want me to
send a reply?”

“Not yet please, Alice,” Alan replied. “I want to take some time to think about our response.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing for free, I’m not bloody well doing it! They can take their bloody orders and shove it where the sun don’t shine!” Sam said
stubbornly with his arms folded in frustration and anger. “Mason is a dead man and that’s the end of it! And as for joining the Militia, I’d rather die a thousand deaths than join
that viper’s nest of traitors!”

Alan read the message again:

DO NOT KILL MORGANA STOP JOIN THE MILITIA STOP GATHER INTELLIGENCE STOP NAMES OF RECRUITS AND DATE OF INVASION STOP SABOTAGE FROM WITHIN STOP ACKNOWLEDGE STOP

Alan shook his head in disbelief at the order. “They must be mad. It must be all of that whiskey that they’ve been drinking up in Scotland. It must have gone to
their heads and scrambled their brains. What the hell are we going to do?”

“It’s simple, Al: we kill Mason and we don’t join the bloody Militia,” Sam answered.

Alan shook his head. “Believe me that I’d like nothing better than to put a bullet into that dirty traitor’s rotten and twisted heart, but we can’t disobey direct orders,
Sam. We can’t go off the reservation. Edinburgh can’t afford to let us go rogue on a oneway do-it-yourself vigilante mission.”

“What would they do about it, Al - kill us?” Sam guffawed.

Alice nodded her head. “You may well laugh, Sam, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Edinburgh ordered the execution of Kaiser Eddie and Simpson without any hesitation, the King’s own
brother and his own sister-in-law; what makes you think that they would not order the execution of a couple of disobedient school boys?” Alice asked grimly. “After all, we may not be
the only Active Service Unit in Hereward. Remember the Hereward Hospital fire? You boys said that the fire wasn’t your handiwork.”

“It wasn’t us, sis,” Sam maintained.

“It’s all right, I believe you,” Alice laughed.

“So what do we do now?” Alan asked.

“You boys go off and play with your guns. I’ll think of something,” Alice answered.

“Sam’s not going to join your Fascists, sir.” Alan announced the following day.

“What? I don’t believe it!” Mason bared his teeth in anger. “The nerve of the boy! Has he forgotten about our deal?” He took the plastic packet out of his pocket
and dangled the bullet in front of Alan’s face.

Alan shrugged his shoulders, which only seemed to make Mason even madder. “Sam doesn’t care, sir. You’ve got to remember that the Nazis murdered both his father and his mother.
The SS hung them both from the Town Hall balcony.”

“I know that, Alan, but doesn’t he realise that he doesn’t have a choice?”

“We all have a choice, sir, whatever we do,” Alan maintained resolutely. “The Nazis murdered his parents and they would turn in their graves if Sam joined your Fascists. He
absolutely refuses to work for the Nazis, sir.”

Mason sighed wearily. “They are not ‘my Fascists,’ Alan. I am not a Fascist and I have never considered myself to be a Fascist. I simply think that the BUF at this moment in
time represents the best chance of restoring law and order to our damaged and destroyed country. Can Sam not see that?” Mason shook his head with frustration. “This is the only way that
we can bring peace to our country. Sam would not be working for the Germans; he would merely be working with the Germans.”

Alan shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “You say tomato, Sam says tomato, sir.”

“Can he not see that the only way to bring this civil war to an end is for one side to beat the other?”

Alan nodded. “Yes, sir, he does; but Sam thinks that you’ve joined the wrong side, sir. The side of the traitors instead of the patriots.”

“So it’s like that, is it?” Mason said angrily. “It’s that simple, eh? You’re either a traitor or a patriot. And what does that make you, Alan?”

Alan shrugged his shoulders with disconcerting nonchalance. “I’m neither, sir. I’m a pragmatist. I was on the losing side at Fairfax and I can’t say that I enjoyed it.
Being massacred was not a particularly pleasurable experience either, and I don’t care to repeat it. I don’t want to be on the losing side again.”

“So you don’t think Churchill can win the War?” Mason asked with a twinkle in his eyes. At last, progress.

Alan’s eyebrows rose up at the temerity of the question. “I don’t see how he can, sir. Not with the whole of Europe stacked against him. Spanish Fascist volunteers and Italian
troops have already arrived to take part in the invasion of Scotland. I wouldn’t be surprised if French Fascist volunteers are also on the way. They’ll all want a piece of the pie when
Hitler carves up our Empire.”

Mason shook his head. “ That’s where you’re wrong, Sam: the Führer has promised the Prime Minister that if British troops take part in the invasion of Scotland then he
will guarantee that no British territory will be handed over to any other countries…”

“Apart from former German territories…” Alan interrupted.

“Well, yes, of course,” Mason coughed into his hand. “It seems only fair and reasonable that former German colonies stolen from her at the end of the First World War should be
restored to her. Even Lloyd George, in retrospect, thought that the terms of the Treaty of Versailles were too harsh towards Germany.”

“So Germany won’t touch the British Empire apart from former German territory, sir?”

“Scout’s honour, Alan,” Mason promised.

Alan thought for a moment before answering. “Well, if it’s good enough for you, then it’s good enough for me, sir.” Alan flashed his most charming schoolboy smile.

“Glad to have you on board.” Mason smiled. “Has Sam considered the consequences of his decision?”

Alan laughed. “That’s strange, sir, because Sam asked me to ask you the very same question.”

“Section at fifty yards, to your front, rapid FIRE!”

There was a sudden salvo of shots that shredded the targets.

After about forty-five seconds there was a shouted chorus of “Magazine!” as the marksmen ran out of rounds and changed their magazines.

Leon checked his watch and after another fifteen or so seconds he shouted, “Cease fire! Apply safety catches! Make safe!” There was a sound of bolts being drawn back as the marksmen
ejected any spare rounds, which they caught in their hands. The three assistants standing behind the marksmen knelt down and examined the rifle chambers that were all now empty of rounds. Each of
the assistants raised their right hands and shouted, “Clear!”

Leon nodded his head. “Excellent! Stand up! Examine the targets!”

The three marksmen leapt to their feet, placed their rifles on the ground, and started to walk towards their targets.

“When the Kaiser’s Army first encountered the British Expeditionary Force in Belgium, they were horrified to discover that the BEF was armed with hundreds of machine guns. They came
to that conclusion because the BEF mowed the Huns down by the hundred and by the thousands. Except that the Huns were wrong: the BEF was not armed with hundreds of machine guns, they were armed
with tens of thousands of these.” Leon held up a rifle, “A .303 Lee Enfield rifle, the standard issue rifle of the British Army. The reason why the Huns thought that we were armed with
hundreds of machine guns was because our marksmanship was so accurate and because the British soldier is trained to fire fifteen rounds per minute. We fired so accurately and so fast that the Huns
thought that we were armed with machine guns, but we weren’t, we were armed with the humble rifle.” Leon puffed out his chest with pride. “I know because I was there.”

The marksmen and their assistants had stopped walking in order to listen to Leon’s story.

“And that’s why we’re here, Mr Leon,” Anne Mair said. “So that you can teach us how to kill Huns as quickly as possible by the hundred and by the
thousand.”

“That’s my girl, Anne.” Leon smiled. “And God willing, we will.”

Leon examined each of the targets in turn. He and his two sons had built three scarecrows, which were all now dressed as German soldiers. Leon, Bob and Russ had chosen the most rough and ragged
sets of uniform that they could salvage from the collection of clothes that they had stripped from the bodies of the dead Germans that they had killed in the previous six weeks. The boys had even
managed to find a few dented helmets, which had definitely seen better days. However, the helmets did complete the look and when they were placed on top of the heads at a rakish angle they did give
the scarecrows an extra degree of authenticity and a certain je ne sais quoi.

Leon nodded his head in admiration. “Not bad, not bad at all. Actually quite good.” He looked at Anne. “A three inch group at fifty yards. Where did you learn to
shoot?”

Anne’s face beamed with pride. “On my uncle’s farm, Mr Leon, in Frampton before the… before the…” Anne’s eyes welled up with tears.

Leon put a fatherly arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. “It’s all right, Anne, it’s all right. It’s good to cry, let it all out.”

“I’m all right, Mr Leon.” Anne wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m all right. Really I am. It’s just that sometimes I feel so weak and helpless. I
really want to hurt those Nazi bastards!” Anne punched a fist into the palm of her hand.

“I promise you, Anne, as God is my witness, that we will pay those murdering Nazi bastards back for all of the pain and suffering that they have inflicted on you and on all of our
people.”

Anne nodded in agreement as Bob Leon walked over to comfort her.

Leon examined the next target with awe and wonder. “Now this, now this is really astounding!” Leon’s eyes bulged in amazement. “A two inch group at fifty yards. Where did
you learn to shoot, Aurora?”