Young Lions by Andrew Mackay

both fought at Wake and Fairfax. So what?” Alan was rapidly losing his temper despite knowing that he had to keep his wits about him. Have you sold your soul to the Devil, Ansett? Are you a traitor? Am I going to have to start killing my own people?
    “The War is not over.”
    “What?”
    “You’re not alone.”
    Alan’s legs seemed to turn to rubber. His energy seeped out of him like air escaping from a punctured balloon. He sat down on a wall to gather his thoughts and regain his strength. Can I trust you? Is the Luger loaded? Is it made ready? Is there a round already up the spout? Can I squeeze off a round and kill you, you treacherous bastard, before you can call your Jerry friends? Too dazed and confused to think straight. I must think. I need time to think. What to say? What to do?
    “What do you want from me?” Alan asked.
    “Are you ready to pick up the gauntlet again?”
    “What about all of that ‘laughing at another’s person’s expense’ in the square rubbish?”
    “A smokescreen.”
    A pretty damned effective one, Alan thought.
    “I know what you’re thinking.”
    You have absolutely no idea what I’m capable of. What I’ve seen. What I’ve done. You’d run a mile and you wouldn’t stop to look back. “You didn’t join up. You were in the last War, you were Mentioned in Dispatches for God’s sake, you were in the last War and you didn’t join up for this one.” The words tumbled out as soon as the thoughts entered his head.
    “I had reasons for that. I can explain.”
    “How?” Alan stood with his hands on his hips.
    “In fact, I can do better than that. I can show you. I can prove it to you.”
    Alan could almost taste and touch Ansett’s desperate desire to be believed. His yearning urge to be trusted again as one of the good guys. “When?”
    “Tomorrow. Come to my classroom after school.”
     
    “How close are we to finishing?” Wurth asked, surveying the field.
    “The men are working flat out, sir,” Lindau answered.
    Wurth’s paratroopers, von Schnakenberg’s Grenadiers and his adopted motorcyclists were scattered across the fields are far as the eye could see, busy digging up the mass graves of the dead civilians and slaughtered British soldiers. Other soldiers were collecting documents from the murdered men, women and children and dog tags from the bodies of the executed Fusiliers. A group of desk bound soldiers were recording details from the rapidly growing mountain of mouldy and musty material. Once the documents had been catalogued they were put into empty ammunition boxes. When the ammunition box became full it was locked shut with a padlock and an armed sentry was posted to guard it. Photographers were methodically taking photos of the dead.
    “How much longer?” Wurth asked.
    “We should be finished by tomorrow.”
    “Friday?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Good.” Wurth nodded his head. “We have a rehearsal for the Remembrance Day Parade on Saturday, Remembrance Day takes place on Sunday and we leave for Germany that afternoon.”
     
    “You will have to intercept and destroy Wurth’s Fairfax report, Zorn,” Schuster said firmly.
    “Me, sir? How?” Zorn was absolutely horrified.
    “Wurst leaves Hereward straight after the Remembrance Day Parade and I’m sure that he will carry the report on him. We can’t wait until he leaves England. You’ll have to destroy it before he leaves Hereward. Afterwards will be too late.”
    Except that Wurth would be guarded night and day by three thousand armed to the teeth, itching for a fight paratroopers.
    “Are you at all familiar with English History, Zorn?” Schuster asked, picking up a hefty looking book.
    “Sir?” Where was this leading?
    “Who will rid me of this troublesome priest?” Schuster quoted from the text.
    “I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
    Schuster opened the front of the History text book and pointed to the contents page “That will tell you how to