Authors: Andrew Mackay
The painter kept watch to ensure that the coast was clear. He then opened the garden gate for his companion. He crept up the garden path to the front door carrying the jerry can in one hand and a hose in the other. When he reached the door he slowly lifted up the letter flap and inserted the hose. He placed the other end of the hose in the jerry can and tilted it up at an angle until it was higher than the letter flap. The contents of the jerry can flowed through the hose and gushed onto the carpet inside the house. The carpet soon became sodden and soaked through. The dark figure carefully placed the empty jerry can on the “Welcome” mat outside the door and laid the hose on the ground beside it. He then tiptoed back down the garden path. When he reached the painter at the gate they both reached into their pockets and extracted a rectangular box. The matches burned brightly in the black night as they lit the petrol soaked rags. They picked up the petrol bombs and threw them at the large bay windows at the front of the house.
The bombers exited through the gate as the windows shattered. The petrol soaked carpets went up in wall of flames as the Molotov Cocktails exploded. The arsonists couldn’t resist whooping a wild war cry as they admired their handiwork. They then turned on their heels and ran off into the night disappearing as silently as they had appeared.
“How is the public reacting to the fire bomb attacks?”
“Until the first deaths there was general sympathy with the bombers’ motives, but not with their actions. Since the first deaths public opinion is firmly on the side of the victims and against the attackers. The arsonists are universally hated and condemned.”
“How are the British Authorities coping?”
“They’re not, sir,” Zorn answered. “The Fire Brigade cannot cope: they are under equipped and undermanned. The Police are not coping either. They rounded up the usual suspects, including the Edwards boy, on Monday. However, he had a watertight alibi and they had no choice but to release him after twenty four hours due to a lack of evidence.”
“Lack of evidence!” Schuster guffawed contemptuously.
“Sir, a Police Constable was stabbed in the chest as he attempted to arrest a suspect last night-the suspect escaped.”
“I know, Zorn. The Chief Inspector came and saw me this morning together with the Mayor and Bishop Rathdowne. They have asked for permission and authorization to increase the number of ‘Special Constables’ in order to deal with what the Chief Inspector called ‘vigilante mobs taking the Law into their own hands.’ I have granted his request. The good bishop will preach against ‘anarchy and lawlessness’ during his church service this Sunday and he will ask for volunteers to join the Specials. The Mayor will place an ad in the ‘Hereward Herald’ this week likewise asking for volunteers.”
“The bishop is turning into a regular little Quisling, sir.”
“Yes, the bishop has his uses,” Schuster laughed. “There is one minor detail, Zorn: The Specials will be armed and the next natural step will be to transform the Specials into a paramilitary force which we can use against Jews, Communists, terrorists and other such untermensch. We are forming the nucleus of a British Fascist Militia, the beginnings of a New Order Army.”
“Divide and conquer, sir.”
“Precisely, Zorn.” Schuster nodded. “Just as we use Frenchmen against Frenchmen in the Milice, so we will use Englishmen against Englishmen in the Specials.”
“So you promise that you have absolutely nothing to do with these arson attacks?” Ansett asked. He was leaning with his back to his desk with his arms folded across his chest.
“I promise, sir,” Alan replied.
“And you, Sam?”
Sam came to a position of attention. “I promise to do my best, to do my duty to God, to serve the King, help other people and to keep the Scout Guide Law.” He gave the Scout salute, smirking as he recited the Scout promise.
“For God’s sake, Sam!” Ansett slammed the palm of his hand on the desk making a loud bang. “This is no laughing matter!” His face was scarlet with rage. “Four people have been killed and you think that this is all one big joke!”
“Four whores and traitors,” Sam retorted as quick as a flash. “Not people.”
“One of the ‘traitors’ was a four month old baby boy,” Ansett said.
“You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
“Are you calling a baby a traitor?” Ansett’s eyes bulged in disbelief.
“No, I’m not.” Sam opened and slammed a desktop. He was sick and tired of being the villain in this story. “What I am saying is that Sarah Burrows knew what she was doing. The Huns killed Fred at Fairfax and he was barely cold in his unmarked grave before she was shacked up with a Nazi. That Nazi might have killed her husband for all that she knew. Two Hun whores had already been executed and she continued to sleep with the enemy. She made a choice. She knew the risks and she took her chances. She knew what she was doing.”
“Little Charlie didn’t have a choice, Sam,” Alan said softly.
Sam’s head whipped around as if he had been slapped. He screwed up his eyes and glared at his friend. Alan refused to be stared down and slowly shook his head in disgust and disapproval. Sam realized that he wasn’t going to win this time. He shrugged his shoulders with forced nonchalance.
“How can you be so callous?” Ansett asked.
“Not callous.” Sam turned to face him. “Matter of fact.”
“Are you telling me that you agree with what the bombers are doing?”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t agree with their methods but I do agree with their motives.”
Alan swore.
“Despite the fact that innocent lives have been lost?” Ansett asked.
“Depends what you mean by ‘innocent.’ We lost far more ‘innocent lives’ on Remembrance Day.”
Ansett did not reply. There was nothing that he could say. Sam was right. Thirteen people had died and twenty four had been wounded that day. Some of the victims had been women and children, but all of the victims had been innocent. All of them had died as a result of the decisions that Ansett had made and the actions that he, Sam, Alan and Robinson had carried out that day.
“Guilty, innocent. Terrorists, Partisans. Words are cheap. There is absolutely no difference between the killing of the Nazi whores and the execution of the mayor.” Sam continued. “They were all traitors and collaborators and they all deserved to die.” Sam stuck his chin out resolutely, defying anyone to challenge him.
Ansett thought about challenging Sam, but it was rapidly becoming obvious that he was banging his head against a brick wall. He decided to change tactics. “But you promise that you have had nothing to do with these attacks?”
Sam nodded. “I may sympathize with the attackers, but I have nothing to do with them.”
“Good.” Ansett stood up. “I’m glad to hear it. Because what’s happened so far is child’s play. The bombers have only had to deal with flat footed bicycle cycling Bobbies on the beat who couldn’t catch a cold, never mind armed arsonists.”
“So what’s the problem?” Sam asked.
“Christ!” Ansett exclaimed in exasperation. “You don’t get it, do you?” He started to stride purposefully around the classroom, talking and walking as he thought. “If the arsonists continue with their attacks then it will only be a matter of time before they kill a German, whether deliberately or accidentally. It doesn’t matter.”
“The Huns will take hostages…” Alan began.
“… And they will shoot them if they fail to find the arsonists,” Sam interrupted, “thus turning the people against them and scoring a spectacular own goal.” He shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”
Ansett bit his tongue. He refused to let Sam’s question provoke him. “Most of us,” Ansett emphasized, “can see what is going to happen if the attacks do not stop.”
“What are you suggesting?” Sam suddenly stood up. He could see where Ansett’s train of thought was leading.
“That we stop them ourselves.” Alan beat Ansett to the punch.
“What?” Sam exclaimed as if he had been burnt with a red hot poker. He turned around to stare at Alan in disbelief. “
‘
We stop them ourselves?’ We help the Nazis to catch our own people?” Sam asked rhetorically.
“They’re not ‘our own people’, Sam,” Ansett answered. “These arsonists are killing British men, women and children. It doesn’t matter whether they, or anyone else, consider them to be innocent or guilty.”
“You’re going to do the Germans’ dirty work,” Sam accused. “You might as well join up with Mosley and his mob.”
“No, Sam,” Ansett said patiently. “We’re going to stop the arsonists before the Jerries can start their work.”
“How?” Sam asked.
Ansett did not answer.
“How?” Sam repeated.
“I don’t know yet,” Ansett admitted. He stopped stomping around the classroom and resumed his position perched on the desk. “But if we work together then we can come up with a plan.”
“The problem with you, sir, is that you ask all of the right questions, but you don’t have the right answers. Well, the fire bombers do have the answers. They’ve cleaned the Hun whores and their Boche boyfriends off the streets and that is absolutely fine with me.” Sam stormed out of the classroom and slammed the door before either Alan or Ansett could reply.
“Ah, good morning, Paul.” Harold Ashworth stood up from behind his desk and walked around to the front as Paul Mason walked in. Ashworth was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
“Good morning, Rector.” Mason shook Ashworth’s hand.
“I believe that you know the Mayor; Mr. Brunswick; Chief Inspector Brown and Bishop Rathdowne?”
The men all stood up and Mason shook their hands in turn before sitting down.
“Paul, you are no doubt curious as to why we have asked you to join us here.”
“You could say that.”
“Well, perhaps it would be better if Chief Inspector Brown explained.”
“Thank you, Harold,” Brown said, leaning forward in his chair. “Captain Mason, as you know we are in the process of expanding the existing Special Constabulary Unit in order to help the Police deal with the criminal activities of various hooligan elements in Hereward.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector. I am aware of the plan.” Mason noticed that Brown considered the arsonists’ actions to be criminally and not politically motivated. The attackers were cowardly criminals. Plain and simple.
“What are your views on the subject, Captain?” Brown asked.
“I think that it’s a good idea.” Mason could sense Mayor Brunswick and Bishop Rathdowne nodding their heads with approval. “You can’t allow people to take the law into their own hands.”
“We cannot allow mob rule in Hereward nor will we allow anarchy to take hold,” Ashworth continued.
“Have you thought about joining up, Paul?” Rathdowne asked.
“To be honest, Ben, I hadn’t actually paid it much thought,” Mason admitted.
“The Special Constabulary needs a commander, Captain Mason,” Brown used Mason’s RRiFF rank, “someone with proven natural leadership abilities, a man whom the men can look up to and we think that you’re the man for the job.”
“But my work at school. I wouldn’t have time,” Mason protested.
“You would have more time for work outside school in the Specials if you spent less time teaching. I need a new deputy rector.” Ashworth dangled the carrot in front of Mason’s nose. “Less teaching time, but more responsibility points, a pay rise and a rent free house within the grounds of the school would accompany that position.”
“And my rank?” Mason asked Brown.
“Inspector. It’s a fully paid position.”
Mason’s eyes lit up at the thought of what was being offered. Promotion, privelage, prestige. Power. “Is there anything else that I should know?”
Brown coughed before he answered. “Brigadefuhreur Schuster is supplying the Police and the Specials with captured British revolvers.”
“You’re going to work for the Germans?” Mason asked with horror as he nearly leaped off the chair.
Brown’s face turned red with fury. The hackles of his moustache rose as he opened his mouth to reply.
But Rathdowne preempted him and cut Brown off at the pass. “Not for the Germans, Paul,” he explained gently. “We will not work for the Germans,” he emphasized. “It just so happens that at this moment in time we share the same enemy-the arsonists.”
“The Jerries are only supplying weapons, correct?” Mason asked.
“Correct,” Brown answered who had recovered his self-control.
“They’re not supplying us with ‘advisers’ or anything like that? We’re not having joint patrols?”
“No.”
“The Specials will only deal with civil matters, not political?”
“Yes. I guarantee it.”
Mason looked into the expectant faces of the four most powerful and influential men in Hereward. He felt a wave of adrenalin surge through his body. The success or failure of this entire venture depended on the decision that he was about to make. “I’ve made up my mind.”
The men sat forward on the edge of their seats with expectation.
“I accept.”
“Do you love me, Hans?” Margaret Paterson asked as she lay in bed.
“Yes, of course I love you, Maggie,” Hans answered earnestly. “You know I do.”
Hans Wagner had taught German for three years at Ellis Academy, a prestigious independent school for boys in Cambridge. He had reluctantly returned to Germany during the Munich Crisis in 1938 and he had planned to return to England but he had been conscripted into the Army. Wagner was a passionate Anglophile and he considered it a great tragedy that Germany and Britain were at war.
Margaret Patterson taught French and German at St. Mary’s School for Girls in Cambridge and she had met and fallen in love with Hans during her summer holidays in Germany in 1935. Unfortunately, when Hans was conscripted their wedding plans were put on hold and when the war began both Hans and Maggie buckled under the weight of intense parental pressure from both sides and broke off their engagement.
However, Han’s unexpected arrival in Hereward as a leutnant in the Potsdam Grenadiers had changed everything. Both Margaret and Hans felt that fortune was smiling on them and the Gods had given them a second chance.