The British Lion
DEDICATION
For the greatest generation, who gave me the freedom to write this and you the freedom to read it
EPIGRAPH
I have never accepted what many people have kindly said—namely, that I inspired the nation. Their will was resolute and remorseless, and as it proved unconquerable. It was the nation and the race dwelling all round the globe that had the lion’s heart. I had the luck to be called upon to give the roar.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL, PARLIAMENT, NOVEMBER 30, 1954
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tony Schumacher
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CHAPTER 1
November 1946
Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital, London
ERNST KOEHLER’S INDEX finger and thumb on his left hand ached like they’d been hit with a hammer.
Which surprised him, because he no longer had an index finger and thumb on that hand to ache.
He squeezed what remained of his fist tight and looked at his watch. He reached into the pocket of his trench coat for his cigarettes, then opened the top of the pack with his teeth before shaking one free.
“There is no smoking here, Major,” the English hospital orderly said quietly.
The little man was already looking down at the floor, away from the death’s-head badge on Koehler’s SS cap, before he finished the sentence.
“Shut up,” said Koehler, cigarette already in his mouth.
Koehler produced a box of matches and passed them to the Gestapo officer to his right.
Schmitt looked at them for a moment, and then back up at his boss.
“Light me,” Koehler said, cigarette bobbing, left hand held up as proof of its ineffectiveness.
Schmitt fumbled with the box, nerves on edge, before finally managing to light a match and put it to the cigarette. Koehler grunted, drew deeply, and closed his eyes, agitation eased for a few minutes.
He held out his hand for the matches, and Schmitt passed them back.
“Thank you,” Koehler said in German.
Schmitt didn’t reply.
“Are you okay?” Koehler tried again.
Schmitt looked at the orderly, then back to Koehler.
“He doesn’t speak German—none of them do, it’s the rules.”
“I still don’t want to talk in front of him,” Schmitt whispered.
“Do you have a problem?”
Schmitt shook his head unconvincingly.
“If you have a problem, you need to tell me,” Koehler tried again, then took another drag on the cigarette.
Schmitt looked at the back of the orderly’s head once more, then at Koehler.
“This is wrong, what we are doing. It’s wrong.”
“Visiting Rossett is wrong?”
“Yes. Well, no, but yes. After the damage he caused—” Schmitt broke off and looked at the orderly again, then shook his head. “We shouldn’t be here. Now isn’t the time.”
Koehler stared at the Gestapo man for a moment, then leaned in close.
“How long have you worked for me?”
“Technically I don’t work for you.”
It was Koehler’s turn to frown.
“Am I your boss?”
“Technically, yes.”
“So, technically, how long have you worked for me?”
Schmitt looked at Koehler.
“A month or so, although I’m Gestapo liaison, so technically—”
Koehler cut him off.
“It’s been eventful, hasn’t it?”
“What has?”
“This month, it’s been eventful?”
Schmitt shook his head.
“If you call chasing Rossett and some Jewish kid all over London for the last week eventful? Well, then, yes, it has; but personally, I’d say it’s been more madness than anything else. Madness that has nearly cost me my job, and my life.”
“But you are alive, Schmitt, and if you want to stay alive, you’ll stick with me while I sort this out.”
“We’re German officers.” Schmitt looked at the orderly again, subconsciously lowering his voice as he continued, even though he was still speaking in German. “We shouldn’t have to sort things out. Things should be done correctly in the first place.”
“You just follow my lead. If you want to stay alive, follow my lead.”
Schmitt shook his head.
“When this is over I want out of your department.”
“I want out of your department . . . sir,” Koehler replied, then regretted it.
“I want out of your department, sir. I can’t operate like this, this way that you work, breaking rules, running wild. I can’t do it. I want out. If you give me your word I can go, I’ll do as you say.”
Koehler put the cigarette back in his mouth as he looked into Schmitt’s eyes. He pondered the offer, taking the time to take a deep drag and weigh up his options; finally, he exhaled and spoke.
“You follow my lead this morning with Rossett, and then I’ll recommend your transfer.”
“Thank you.”
Koehler nodded, then nudged the orderly.
“How much longer?” Smoke drifted from his nose and mouth as he spoke, this time in English.
“I don’t know, sir, maybe ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?”
“Maybe less, it all depends . . .”
The orderly didn’t finish his sentence. Koehler had already pushed through the double doors and was limping up the middle of the half-empty ward. Schmitt sighed heavily and followed.
There were eighteen beds, occupied by men in various states of distress, but Koehler didn’t pay attention to them. He headed straight for the one at the top of the ward on the left-hand side. The bed that had curtains drawn around it and two bored SS guards sitting at its foot.
The two guards stood up when they realized there was a uniformed SS major limping his way toward them. One of the guards dropped a newspaper on the floor, made to pick it up, then thought better. He eventually made an awkward attempt at standing to attention, half up, half down, MP40 swinging in its sling in front of him.
Koehler ignored the guards, pulled back the curtain around the bed a few inches, and stepped inside. A doctor was bent over the patient and another orderly stood behind him, holding a tray of bloodied bandages and cotton wool. Both men turned to Koehler, who looked first at the tray and then at the doctor.
“Get out,” Koehler said.
“I’m treating this man.” The doctor turned to face Koehler.
The orderly was less belligerent. He stepped backward through the gap in the curtains without a word, like a bad comedian glad to get off the stage.
The English doctor held a thick cotton wool wad in front of him, bloody proof of his need to be there.
“You need to wait until I’m finished.” This time the doctor’s voice was stronger, given weight by years of telling people what to do and them doing it.
“Get out,” repeated Koehler flatly.
“I’ll do no such thing.
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