by Colin Forbes
'Just like the obstacle course at Chester, sir.' He stood up cautiously and unlooped his own weapon. 'But maybe I need a refresher course. We'd better get inside - I can hear Mac coming.'
The clattering rattle of the approaching half-track was in their ears as Prentice dealt with the process of getting in. He used his machine-pistol butt to club the latch and the woodwork splintered swiftly under his third blow. Without realizing that the shutters opened outwards, he used his shoulder to go through them, head tucked well in as he rammed his body against and through the breaking shutters with such force that the impetus took him half-way across the room before he could pull up. He hardly saw the room: faded religious murals on the stone walls, a cloth-covered table, an ikon; then he reached the varnished door and opened it with great care. The musty odours of the unused room were in his nostrils as he peered both ways along a deserted corridor and from beyond the balcony he heard the grumble of the oncoming half-track. They'd cut the timing pretty fine. Beckoning to Ford, he ran down the passage to his left. It was like running through a cloister - wooden archways at intervals and large windows to his right which looked down on the square below - and the only sound in the monastic silence, now the walls had muffled the half-track's approach, was the sound of his clumping boots as he ran full tilt for the staircase at the end. He paused briefly when he arrived at the corner, looked to his right where another deserted corridor ran along the second side, glanced up the empty staircase and ran up it, turning at a landing before running up the second flight. On the second floor an identical view faced him - corridors stretching away from the corner in two directions. To his right, at the far end, Ford, who had just emerged from his own staircase, raised a thumb. Prentice returned the signal and went over to the nearest window, hid himself behind a section of the wall and waited.
In less than thirty seconds he saw the half-track coming backwards into the yard, but gave the vehicle only a brief glance as his eyes searched the windows across the square at different levels. His waiting time was very short - the half-track had entered the square, had reversed direction and started driving forwards round the square below them when a window opposite opened and two German soldiers leaned out to stare down at the half-track's mad career round the square. Prentice raised his machine-pistol, thrust the muzzle sharply through the glass, and the shattering noise was lost in the long burst as he sprayed the window steadily, saw the Germans crumple and disappear as movement higher up caught his eye. Through an open window on the top floor another German was aiming his rifle downwards at Prentice when Ford's machine-pistol opened up with a murderous rattle, one much shorter burst, short but lethal. The German with the rifle lost his weapon and followed it down into the yard below as Macomber sped towards the church. A burst of answering fire from farther along the top floor hammered Prentice's shattered window as he jumped back behind the wall. He heard Ford's weapon replying as something moved behind him. He swung his gun round, knowing the magazine was almost empty, and the muzzle pointed at Grapos who froze at the top of the stairs. He must have come up the rope like a charge of electricity.
The explosion came as Prentice, inserting a fresh magazine, was grinning crookedly at Grapos. The grenade landed midway along the corridor between Ford and the lieutenant, but Grapos had seen it fly in through a window and was sheltered behind the staircase. 'Jesus, this is getting rough,' Prentice muttered half to himself. He knocked a shard of glass from his sleeve, staring down at the Greek who stood with his rifle and the rope looped afresh over his shoulder, and started to move round the corner into the next corridor. Ford, protected by a section of wall, was firing again across the yard as the German on the top floor opposite changed tactics. He must have assumed that there were men spread along the side corridor because suddenly a stream of bullets began shattering every window along the passage Prentice was about to move into. Glass was strewn over the floor, bullets scarred the inner wall while the lieutenant, safe behind the wall in the next corridor he shared with Ford, waited for the barrage to cease. The next grenade landed closer to Ford, sent a fresh shock wave in both directions, and for the first time Prentice grasped what was happening.
A German had entered the corridor below them. Knowing the enemy was on the floor above, he hadn't risked coming up a staircase: instead he was leaning out of a lower window while he tossed grenades upwards and inside the second-floor windows. It was only a matter of time before he chose the right aperture for his deadly missiles. Prentice hesitated, reviewing the situation. Macomber couldn't fire on the German while he was driving the half-track round the square at that pace, and the plan called for him to keep up this diversion whatever happened. The fusillade along the next corridor ceased briefly and Grapos called out, 'I will deal with him...' He gestured along the corridor and then downwards, took out his knife and ran down the passage before disappearing inside a room mid-way along the building.
The room which the Greek had entered also had a balcony, and it was towards this he ran after closing the door as a precaution against a grenade landing in the entrance. Thrusting open the shutters, he went into the sunlight and the firing in the square was muffled to a quiet rattle. It took him a matter of seconds to jam the hook down between the floorboards, to throw the rope over the edge, then he was slipping down the rope which dangled past the first-floor balcony below. His boots scraped the rail, felt their way inside it, and he slithered the last few feet on to the balcony. Inserting his knife blade between the ill-fitting shutters, he forced up the latch, fingered open the left-hand shutter gently and went inside the half-darkened room. The inner door was closed and he listened with his ear pressed against its panel for several seconds before gripping the handle with his left hand. The right hand held the knife ready for throwing as he eased the handle to the open position, stood to the opening side of the door and flung it back against the wall. When he went into the corridor he saw that the lone German had changed his position and was standing by the window below where Prentice was sheltering. The German had a grenade ready for throwing when he saw Grapos, changed his mind instantly, and hoisted it for a throw straight down the corridor. The knife left Grapos, sped along the passage, struck the soldier a second before he threw. He staggered, dropped the grenade, crashed into a window, one hand clutching his arm. The grenade detonated at his feet.
Macomber, hearing bullets ricocheting off a bench behind him, had driven the half-truck behind the church. His role as a diversion was over and it was time to give a hand with his Luger, so he drove out once more, pressed his foot down and headed for the ramp leading up into the arcaded walk on the eastern side of the square, the side where most of the Germans had appeared earlier. The half-track surged forward at an angle across the square and he was turning the wheel as he went up the ramp, swung round into the corridor, and realized too late it was a fraction narrow for the passage of the vehicle he had intended driving the full length of the arcade. The ground floor was enclosed from the square by a railing only and it was the left-hand caterpillar which encountered this railing, churning it to pieces as it rasped its way forward. The first stone pillar it met was the obstacle it refused to overcome; instead the track parted company with the vehicle, disengaged itself completely and whipped across the square as an intact ring. Macomber had braked at the moment of impact and he jumped over the windscreen, landing on the bonnet and sliding off on to the floor as the vehicle settled at a drunken angle. The engine sputtered and died. He wondered why there was no more shooting.
After waiting a minute, he hobbled slowly along the corridor and stopped at a short flight of steps leading down into the square at a point half-way along the arcade. Shattered windows everywhere, some starred with pieces still intact. And no sound of gunfire. The silence which had descended on the monastery seemed uncanny as he saw Ford peering out from the second floor, risking a quick look-round before withdrawing his head with equal abruptness. Macomber waited a little longer, but there was no sign of the enemy except for the crumple
d figure in Alpenkorps uniform which had toppled from the fourth floor early in the battle. The German in the half-track had long ago been thrown to the floor by one of the Scot's wilder swerves. Still cautious, he made his way along the arcade, turned the corner at the bottom, and walked along the second side. Grapos met him at the foot of the staircase and nodded towards an impressive figure standing a few steps up. A man as tall as Macomber, a vigorous seventy-year-old, he was dressed in the long robes and the flat-topped hat of a dignitary of the Greek Orthodox Church. It was the Abbot of Zervos.
'I found him locked inside his room on the second floor,' Grapos whispered as Prentice appeared on the stairs behind the Abbot.
Macomber spoke in English, remembering from his visit five years earlier that the Abbot understood this language, and he wanted the lieutenant to hear what was said. 'We need information quickly, Father. How many Germans are there here?'
'There were ten men,' the Abbot began crisply. 'They arrived by car yesterday evening disguised as civilians, but they had their uniforms with them. There were three cars...'
'Just a moment, please.' Macomber held up his hand and looked at Prentice. 'Any idea how many you've accounted for yet?'
'Seven,' the lieutenant replied. 'I've been round the building with Ford and checked...'
'Eight then, including that frozen lookout - or nine with the man on the gatehouse...'
'Seven,' Prentice repeated firmly. 'I've included both those Jerries in my count...'
'There are three men on the north tower,' the Abbot intervened urgently, crossing himself. 'Captain Braun, who commands this unit, spends a lot of time up there with two other men. They have organized an observation post on the roof of the tower and I think they are watching the mainland road. They have a telescope, a wireless transmitter and a mortar gun...'
'A mortar!' Macomber looked up the staircase at Ford who had come round the corner with his machine-pistol tucked under his good shoulder. Despite his wound he looked the coolest man in the group as he stopped and listened to the Scot's question. 'Ford, could a mortar on that high tower cause the destroyer any trouble?'
'It depends. If it's an 8-cm job like the ones I saw on the plateau things could get pretty sticky. Mind you, the range would have to be right and the mortar man would have to be good - but being in the Wehrmacht he probably is. If he's damned lucky and drops a bomb down the stack into the boiler-room - well, you saw what happened to the Hydra...'
'We'd better get up there bloody quick,' Macomber snapped. He turned to Grapos. 'You know the way up, so get us up there...'
The Abbot intervened again, fingering the crucifix suspended from his neck. 'This is a holy place and should never have become a battlefield, but the Germans have only themselves to blame and they have invaded my country. Captain Braun has taken over my bedroom on the fourth floor as his office - Grapos will show you the room I mean - so he may be inside there rather than on the tower.'
'I doubt it - after all this shooting.' Macomber frowned and thought for a moment. 'On the other hand none of you have been seen in the square since the firing stopped, so Braun may just have assumed we've all been wiped out.' He looked again at the Abbot and spoke quietly but firmly. 'And now I want you to go back to your room on the second floor and stay there, whatever happens.' He was following Grapos up to the first landing when he turned for a final word with the Abbot. 'What's happened to all the monks who live here?'
'They have been locked up inside the refectory - across there.' The Abbot pointed across the square towards the church. 'There is plenty of room for them...'
'So it's best they stay there for the moment,' Macomber broke in briskly.- 'Wait here until we've gone and then go to your room, please.' He turned to Grapos. 'There are only three of them but this could be the most dangerous job of the lot. Let's get going.'
They ascended to The third floor without incident and Macomber led the way with the Greek one step below him. The Scot was desperately worried about what might happen if the destroyer came within range before they reached the tower, but he still went up cautiously, pausing at each landing to listen carefully, climbing the stairs like the others on the soles of his boots, so they made very little sound as they approached the fourth floor. Macomber had reached the landing, was about to peer round the corner, when he heard footsteps coming along the top floor. Gesturing to the others below, he waited. The footsteps arrived at the top of the staircase, then faded. Macomber ran up the last flight, saw an empty corridor stretching away, a short passage to his left, an iron-studded door in the stone wall at the end of the passage, a door which must lead to the tower and which was open. He went silently down the short passage and listened at the open door, looking up a stone spiral which vanished round a corner in the gloom. He arrived just in time to hear someone hammering sharply on a wooden surface in a certain way, a signal which doubtless identified the new arrival. Metal scraped over metal as a bolt was withdrawn, nailed boots climbed the last few steps, a trapdoor slammed shut and the bolt rasped home again.
'Who was it?' Grapos whispered in his ear while Prentice and Ford kept a watch on the corridors. Macomber waved a hand to make the Greek shut up and started up the spiral, feeling his way in the darkness with his hand on the roughened wall. The steps were dangerously narrow, fading into nothingness at the inner edge, and when his head touched something he knew he was at the top. He retreated down several steps and switched on his torch. The trap-door was a massive slab of wood, so close-fitting that no hint of daylight had shown through in the darkness. We'll never break through that, he thought, and went back down the spiral.
'We can't shoot our way up on to the roof,' Macomber informed them quietly, 'there's a trap-door like a piece of teak up there. Prentice, let's take a quick look at the Abbot's bedroom and see what drags the brave captain - if it is Braun -out into the open. Ford, you stay here while Grapos watches the lower stairs. If someone starts coming down this spiral, join Grapos, and we'll take care of ourselves.'
They approached the bedroom tentatively in case a guard had been left inside, but the room was empty. The windows looked out over the mountain and the only furniture was an austere bed, a wooden table and a chair. A wireless transmitter rested on the table with a pair of headphones laid neatly behind it close to the chair. 'So that's it,' Macomber commented. 'He's transmitting to Burckhardt from here now. He must have found the roof inconvenient. I'm damned sure he thinks we've all been killed - he hasn't even locked the door.'
'Couldn't,' Prentice pointed out laconically. 'There's no keyhole. Do you think he'll be back?' He was looking out of the window but the wall of the tower cut off any view down to the lake.
'I hope so. It's our only chance of getting up to that tower roof. I'd give anything now for a ten-kilogram demolition charge. Placed under that trap-door it would blow the whole roof into the lake. We'll have to work something simple out in case he does come down again. I expect he might - those headphones look as though he's expecting to use them again in the near future.'
This time Macomber let Prentice make arrangements for Braun's reception because he wanted to hold himself in reserve for what he proposed to attempt if Braun came down again. While Ford watched the staircase, Prentice and Grapos took up ambush station on either side of the doorway leading up to the spiral. Macomber waited at the end of the stone passage with his Luger ready for an emergency. It was a simple-seeming operation like this which could so easily go wrong. They waited and the minutes passed as Macomber wondered whether Braun was now permanently stationed on the roof, whether having radioed a warning of the attack on the monastery he was now going to sit tight until the first half-tracks poured into the square below. Or would he venture once more down the spiral to send a further message about the destroyer's progress? In the silence he heard his wrist-watch ticking and then he heard something else.
Something which thudded hollowly from the ulterior of the spiral. The trap-door had been opened very quietly this time, had then been clo
sed with less sound than previously. Macomber stared down the passage to where Grapos waited pressed against the wall, his knife held by his side, to where Prentice waited on the other side of the doorway, his forehead moist although the temperature was low inside the stone passage. There was a long pause when they heard nothing and Prentice began to think it was a false alarm, but the Scot thought differently and could almost sense the presence of someone listening inside the spiral before he came out. Then a boot scraped over stone, the muzzle of a machine-pistol stabbed out of the doorway and a uniformed captain of the Alpenkorps came out behind it. Prentice grabbed with both hands as Grapos lunged with the knife, but the German swung round with a swift reaction which made Macomber take a step forward. The lieutenant had one hand pressed over his mouth, the other locked round his throat when the German swung so unexpectedly, tearing the hand free from his throat. Grapos had little better success when his knife hit the wrong target, was deflected along the barrel of the machine-pistol and skidded over the German's hand, which made him let go of the weapon but had no disabling effect. The German flung his whole weight on Prentice, catching the freed hand between himself and the bare wall, and the lieutenant thought his knuckles were broken as Grapos lunged a second time and the knife went home. Braun sagged, collapsed on the floor, and when Macomber checked his pulse he felt nothing. Captain Braun had become a permanent casualty.
