Young Lions Read online

  Vincent and his men reached Fairfax an hour or so after the battle of Wake ended to find the rest of the battalion already digging in. Wake Road ran straight through the village from north to south. Norwich Road was a tree lined sunken road that cut through Wake Road at right angles from west to east just before the first houses of Fairfax began. A man kneeling down on Norwich Road had cover from view as well as cover from fire from both Fairfax and from the fields on the Wake side of the road. The Fusiliers were spread and stretched out to the left and right on the road for several hundred feet and were frantically digging in with whatever came to hand. Those lucky enough to have liberated a set of German webbing made use of an entrenching tool; the others used their helmets, mess tins or their bare hands.

  Oberstleutnant Christian von Schnakenberg lowered his binoculars and took off his helmet. He smoothed away his matted hair and wiped the sweat and dirt from his eyes. He was at the edge of a small forest about a quarter of a mile from the enemy positions. “Verdamnt!” He turned around to face his second in command, Major Frederich Lindau. “They’re digging in. We don’t have enough time to attack them before it becomes dark.”

  The motorcyclists had suffered over three hundred casualties in the landing, the fighting in King’s Lynn and in the ambush at Wake so von Schnakenberg’s regiment, The First Battalion Potsdam Grenadiers, had taken over as the spearhead. The Grenadiers had remained pinned down on the wrong side of Wake Bridge whilst the motorcyclists were being massacred and had been unable to help. Von Schnakenberg’s men were chaffing at the bit and they were burning to avenge their fallen comrades. They had lost dozens of friends and comrades trying to cross the bridge and swim across the River Ouse to help the trapped soldiers of the motorcycle battalion. Devious booby traps and cowardly sniper attacks had claimed further lives. The Grenadiers were like a pack of blood thirsty dobermans straining at the leash. Von Schnakenberg doubted if he and his officers could hold them.

  Von Schnakenberg turned around and faced his second in command; “Freddy,” he asked, “what do we know about the enemy forces?

  “We found half a dozen enemy dead in the village with the letters “H.G.” on their armbands. Poorly dressed in a mixture of military and civilian clothes. No doubt they’re Home Guard,” Lindau explained. “We also found discarded but destroyed shotguns and .22 target shooting rifles, plus their shell cases and 0.303 rifle cartridges.”

  “But no machine gun shell cases?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So,” von Schnakenberg thought aloud, “poorly dressed and poorly equipped but well led. They wiped out most of a battalion after all. How are the men?”

  “A Company has suffered heavy casualties but the other companies are fine. The whole battalion is eager to attack, sir.” Von Schnakenberg seemed unsure and uncertain. “Oberstleutnant, the enemy has been lucky once. But they’re schoolboys and old men. They must have suffered casualties and they’ve probably used up most of their ammunition. They’re Home Guard, Oberstleutnant. Surely the Potsdam Grenadiers are a match for them?”

  “What the hell…?” Alan said. A loud explosion made Sam and Alan duck down into their foxholes like frightened rabbits.

  “Take cover!” Lance-Corporal Vincent shouted. “Mortars! Heads down!”

  The mortar shells landed in the field to the front of the Fusiliers’ positions, in Fairfax, behind the soldiers and on top of the men themselves. Alan and Sam sat crouched down in the bottom of their shelters with their knees pulled in tightly to their chests with their hands wrapped around their heads. The earth shook continuously and mud and grass slid into the foxholes. Alan had the horrifying thought that he might be buried alive.

  “Stand to! Battalion! Three hundred yards to your front. Rapid fire. Rapid fire!!!” Hook’s instantly recognizable voice thundered through the Fusiliers’ shelters.

  Sam stuck his head out of his foxhole. German soldiers were less than three hundred yards away.

  “Get stuck into them!” Vincent screamed.

  Sam rapidly worked the bolt, pushing a round into the chamber. He’d hardly pulled the butt into his shoulder and brought the foresight to bear on a distant grey figure when he pulled the trigger.

  “Keep it up. Keep it up!” Vincent shouted his encouragement.

  The distant German figures kept on coming. They seemed to be advancing in waves. They ran forward a few yards and then disappeared, diving into the ground. They opened fire and then popped up a few seconds later in a different position, and then kept coming.

  Alan allowed himself a satisfied smile as he fired and saw a German crumple and hit the ground. He looked to his left and saw Vincent with the captured machine gun pulled up tight against his shoulder. But something was wrong: Vincent’s finger was on the trigger but he was not firing. What the hell was going on?

  Oberleutnant Wilhelm von Schnakenberg lay down in the grass, his face smeared with a mixture of dirt and sweat. He was sweating profusely and panting like a dog. Wilhelm was a happy man; his platoon, despite taking casualties, was fighting well. He and his men had now reached a point roughly one hundred meters from the enemy position. They were now ready to start the final attack. He smiled to himself as he remembered his big brother’s shocked reaction when he announced his intention to follow in Christian’s footsteps and go into the family regiment. Christian had done his best to dissuade him; but alas to no avail. Many of Wilhelm’s friends and fellow officers had good-naturedly remarked that they doubted if there was enough room in the Potsdam Grenadiers for two von Schnakenbergs. He had replied that there was enough fame and glory to be won for both of them, and plenty left over to spare.

  His elder brother, Christian, was the youngest Oberstleutnant in the German Army and had led the First Battalion the Potsdam Grenadiers through the fighting in Poland, Holland, Belgium and France. Wilhelm was proud of his brother, but he had a lot to live up to and he had a desperate desire to prove that he had earned his place in the regiment. He was there on his own merits as a result of what he had done and not because of who he was.

  A loud whistle blast cut through the air. Wilhelm immediately leapt to his feet, “Potsdam!” He screamed at the top of his voice. The other Grenadiers leapt to their feet, “Potsdam! Potsdam!” They shouted. This is it, Wilhelm thought to himself. A final bayonet charge guaranteed to put a poorly equipped enemy to flight. The soldiers charged through the knee-high grass towards the British.

  A chainsaw like staccato ripped through the air.

  “What the-?” Wilhelm said to himself. All around him men were dropping. His men. He recognized the sound of an MG 42. Machine guns! The enemy doesn’t have machine guns! The bullets caught him across the chest, tearing bloody holes diagonally from left to right. He crumpled to his knees. A terrible burning pain spread from his chest across the whole of his body. Blood began to dribble out of the corner of his mouth. As his eyes filled up with tears and his vision began to blur he thought to himself, “machine guns… German machine guns…it’s not fair.”

  Alan’s eyes opened wide with fear as he heard the loud whistle blast tear through the air. Hundreds of Germans suddenly appeared as if they had grown out of the ground and started charging towards the Fusiliers. A bugle blast pierced Alan’s ears. Vincent’s finger tightened on the trigger and his machine gun began to fire. More machine guns joined in. The Germans were stopped in their tracks as if they had run into a brick wall. One second there were hundreds of soldiers charging towards them and the next second there were none. The Grim Reaper had cut down the German stalks of wheat with a giant British scythe.

  Another bugle blast. “Charge!” Vincent screamed, the blood lust was in his eyes, “Come on!” Alan climbed to his feet and charged after Vincent. Everywhere he looked, to his left and right; Fusiliers were scrambling out of their foxholes and charging towards the Germans. The surviving Germans quickly surrendered. The fight had been
knocked out of them. Those lucky enough to escape were running towards the forest dragging their dead and dying with them.

  After five minutes of fight and flight it was all over. The RRiFFS returned to their positions with more German weapons, ammunition, booty and prisoners. Sentries were set and the remaining members of the battalion fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

  Christian von Schnakenberg stared out over the battlefield numb with shock and awe as he watched the tattered remnants of his regiment straggle home. The Grenadiers stumbled and staggered into the forest in ones and twos or sometimes with a wounded comrade propped up with an arm around the waist. Many soldiers were without helmets, their uniforms torn and covered with blood, dirt and gore; most were without weapons that had been abandoned in their haste to get away. All semblances of discipline and order had disappeared. They were no longer soldiers. They were a rabble. A mob. They wandered past von Schnakenberg without a word. Defeat was written all over their faces. And something else. Shame. Shame that they had not carried the enemy position. Shame that they had been beaten so badly, by “schoolboys and old men” as their officers and N.C.O.s had described them before the attack, bragging and boasting about how they would be no match for the high and mighty Potsdam Grenadiers.

  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 g
runted 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.”