by John Wingate
“O.K.,” Peter hissed, and in a few seconds, Bill stood beside him.
“Stay here and cover me, Bill — I’m going in!”
“Good luck, sir,” Bill whispered, drawing his revolver.
Blessing the sailors in the huts, who were so successfully distracting the guards, Peter wriggled for fifteen yards on his stomach, until he reached some steep steps. These led down to the balcony which ran outside the door of the top room in the western tower.
This balcony was edged by a six-foot parapet which formed a safety wall from the drop to the courtyard below. The steps curled to the left at a sharp angle, flanking the round tower. Peter estimated that the door to Harry’s cell must be at the bottom of these steps, and was probably guarded by a sentry. Where the steps curved, a small slit, about nine inches wide and two feet high, served as an inner window to the cell in the tower. He could see the dull glow from the internal lighting.
He quickly withdrew his head as the back view of a bulky, steel-helmeted sentry loomed into view from behind the curvature of the stone wall. The sentry was replacing his submachine gun and slinging it across the back of his broad shoulders. He seemed fidgety, but kept his eyes on the hut below and on the bustle at the main gate. He moved slowly forward and leaned over the inner parapet, his chest resting on the coping, with his back to the tower.
Already the clamour in the castle was subsiding. Peter had to act quickly if he was to act at all, for already the scouting parties must surely be returning. It was tantalising not to be able to see through Harry’s inner window because of the sentry who guarded the door. Peter made up his mind that he must first dispose of the sentry.
Swiftly he crawled back into the gloom at the end of the north-western parapet. In the deep shadow made by the northern tower, he stood upright, his head just reaching over the outside wall. He took a deep breath, and then the weird and plaintive call of the curlew floated twice through the disturbed night.
Jan, Jarvis and Jock, Tommy-guns in front of them, lay flat on their stomachs, concealed by the dense scrub at the main gate. They could not see each other, as they were some twenty yards apart, but ahead of them they could make out the glow of the lights by the castle entrance. Already the commotion of the excited German patrols was dying away.
Jan peered at his watch. Another four minutes to go. What had happened to Peter? What on earth were the Huns playing at? They must have been ready for something, but their reaction was so un-Germanic. Had Peter walked right into a trap, and was he now lying stiff with a bullet between his temples?
The strange and plaintive cry of a curlew floated weirdly through the night, followed quickly by another.
“Thank Heaven,” grinned Jan. “Action at last!”
He picked up his gun and fired a prolonged burst at the gate. To his left, Jarvis took up his cue and blazed away, pumping tracer low into the entrance. Soon they were all three emptying their magazines erratically and yelling at the tops of their voices while spraying the general direction of the gateway with short bursts of fire, and so giving a realistic appearance of a determined frontal attack.
Between bursts, Jan could just hear the blowing of whistles as the remaining guards were called out from their quarters and it was not long before the rattle of rifles and machine-gun fire sputtered from the parapet on each side of the gateway, firing at the elusive Englishmen hidden in the scrub.
Suddenly, a blue-white shaft of light pierced the night from the top of the gatehouse and swept the foreground in front of the castle. Jan felt almost naked as the beam of the searchlight swung over his head, stopped and focused on a clump of bushes near Jarvis. Taking deliberate aim, he put the Bren to his shoulder. His left eye closed as he squinted along the sights, the luminous foresight standing neatly between the ‘V’ of the backsight. He squeezed and held on to the trigger. A long burst of tracer spouted in from the darkness, a high squeal rent the night, and the light plunged into nothingness as the mirror shivered into a thousand fragments.
The battle was joined.
As fast as he was able, Peter regained his position above the stairs, some ten feet from the burly, great-coated sentry, who, by now, was thoroughly alarmed. The German fingered the trigger of his submachine gun and, after ducking his head from each burst of fire, peered dimly over the parapet, fascinated by the scene at the gate. Peter glanced at his watch, hardly believing that twenty-eight minutes had elapsed since he had entered the fortress. Lying in the shadow, he drew his Commando knife from its sheath; then he pulled out his revolver, cocked it and laid it carefully on the flagstones.
Just in case I miss! he thought.
A clatter of musketry roused him to action and he drew the tip of his tongue across his dry lips as he carefully brought himself to his full height by the shadow in the wall. His soft-soled boots made no sound as he balanced with his feet astride, his weight on his right foot and his left arm outstretched towards the broad back which formed his target. Holding the point of the shining blade in his right hand, he slowly bent his arm back behind his right ear. Then, unconsciously shutting his left eye, with all his might he concentrated on a point between the massive shoulder blades which were hunched over the parapet. With all his strength, quicker than his eye could follow, he hurled the flashing blade at the unsuspecting sentry.
There was no need for Peter to drop flat, as he slowly and deliberately picked up his cocked .45 Colt. Covering the massive bulk with his revolver, and sickened by his action, Peter watched his victim slide gurgling to the ground. As it fell, the body half turned, the surprised eyes glaring towards him, mouth opening as if in protest, one hand sliding from the parapet while the other tightened on the submachine gun.
A wave of nausea swept over Peter, who had never killed a man in cold blood before. He slipped silently down the steps, two at a time, until he was on the level of the slit window. Spread-eagled against the clammy wall, he strained his ears. Silence from inside. Only the pale yellow light glimmered. If he peered through the window, a bullet might blow out his brains, but how was he to see whether Harry was guarded? Then he realised his luck. As the cell was lighted inside, the inmates would not be able to see any onlookers peering through the window because the view from inside, looking towards the northern walls of the castle, would be a rectangle of blackness.
Slowly Peter turned his head and raised himself so that his eye was above the level of the sill. A huge figure had its back to him. It peered out of the opposite window and was watching developments on the clifftop. Large, massive arms were grasping for support on the windowsill. Harry! Oh, Harry! How good it was to see him.
Even muffled as he was in that huge, enveloping cloak, his back was unmistakable!
Peter cupped his hands and whispered in a sibilant hiss.
“Boat ahoy, Harry? Boat ahoy?”
To this traditional naval challenge, Harry, being Captain of a ship, should perforce reply with the name of his ship — Restless. No other reply would suffice.
The huge figure slowly stiffened. In the gloom, Peter recognised Harry’s immense frame, but it was odd of him not to reply instinctively with the correct response.
“Strange… I wonder…?”
Some primeval instinct pierced Peter with fear. He quickly jerked his head away from the slit as a shattering report split his ears and a bullet thudded and spattered against the stones. Peter dropped flat.
So it wasn’t Harry! Some fat Prussian was playing possum to lure him into a deadly trap. Peter’s blood was up and he saw red.
“Thank Heaven!” he whispered, groping for a grenade at his belt. In a flash, he pulled out the pin, counted three, and, without exposing his head above the sill, he lobbed the grenade through the window-slit.
He jumped for the door on the parapet in a flying leap as a muffled explosion came from inside the cell. Acrid smoke blew back from under the door.
Fifty yards away, the guards had their backs to him, and were firing over the walls and into the night. Careless as
to concealment now, Peter thrust the barrel of his Colt into the lock of the door and fired, shattering the lock. He put his shoulder to the massive timbers and heaved with all his might. The door moved slowly at first, then gave suddenly with clouds of dense smoke belching outwards. As Peter plunged into the darkness, the bitter taste of the fumes tore at his throat and choked him. The huddled body, which had prevented the door from opening, tripped him and sent him flying headlong on to his face. It was as well that he did so, for the floundering figure of a steel-helmeted guard loomed across him, firing at the doorway. Rolling on to his side, Peter emptied his revolver into the Hun, who slumped to the floor.
Peter crawled across to the far wall, feeling for his torch and at last his fumbling hands found the light. Holding it in his left hand, he reloaded the pistol and then, holding the torch well away from him, he saw the little beam light the way to an alcove which led off from the main cell.
Peter remained on his knees and held the light above him. Another murderous guard might be lurking! But no sound came, save an odd, muffled groan from within the alcove. Swiftly Peter crawled inside. The blue beam slid over the blank wall opposite. Slowly it explored the alcove and stopped by a small buttress, inside which a large figure loomed, writhing and kicking its legs. The beam fastened on the face, which was gagged.
“Harry!” Peter shouted, leaping to his side.
He tore at the bandages and stripped them from Harry’s face.
“Bless you, Peter!” Harry gasped, his face cracking into a smile. “My hands — chained,” he went on, as he shook his manacled wrists. Two shots reverberated through the cell, and the shattered chains fell to the ground.
“Follow me! Crawl!” Peter commanded.
Feeling their way over the bodies, they floundered to the doorway and Peter was feeling for the latch, when a guttural voice drawled in perfect English from the darkness.
“Not so fast, my friend! Drop your gun and stay where you are.”
Peter spun round, the beam of his torch falling upon a dark figure that knelt in the far corner, and then his revolver clattered to the ground by the doorway.
Kapitan von Kramer, crouched on one knee, covered them with a weaving Luger. He had been knocked unconscious by the grenade and was lucky to be alive, but blood oozed from a scratch on his cheek.
“Against the wall!” Kramer snapped, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Peter considered rushing him, but, with Harry in poor shape, there would be no chance so they both backed to the wall. Kramer drew himself to his feet and sidled to the door.
“Come on, round to the other wall so I can see you.”
Kramer’s gun emphasised the order. Peter and Harry moved quickly, so that they were now facing the door which Kramer kicked open with his boot. The door creaked on its hinges and the bright glow from outside lit the cell. Kramer stood in the doorway with his back to the courtyard, his eyes blazing with hatred.
“Now, you English swine!” he blurted, “I am going to liquidate you. People don’t trifle with Kapitan Ulrich von Kramer!”
Peter’s heart jumped into his mouth. So this was to be the end, was it? Death in a squalid prison, with no one the wiser. His eyes watched Kramer, fascinated by the man’s working face. The German was livid with rage.
“But before I do,” he hissed softly, “let me just get one or two things straight. Firstly, you English haven’t got a chance — not a chance.”
He had worked himself into a frenzy, and his left hand hung by his side, flexing spasmodically so that the tendons crackled. It was a hideous sound and Peter shivered.
“That’s what you think, mate!”
A glorious cockney voice rang through the cell. There was a flash and a loud report. Kramer held his wrist as the Luger clattered to the ground on to the battlement outside.
He turned round to meet the gaze of a blue-eyed Commando, wearing a sailor’s cap. Kramer’s eyes dropped to the blue barrel of a revolver from whose spout wisps of smoke still spiralled. The barrel jumped.
“Come on, cock, get weaving! Over against the wall, there. Move!” Bill’s voice snapped.
Kramer jumped.
“Tie him up in Harry’s chains,” cried Peter.
While Bill guarded the door, Peter and Harry shoved Kramer into the annexe and bound and then gagged him with a ripped jacket. Bill’s voice cut in from the doorway.
“Come on, sir, there’s a party of Huns coming down the parapet. Let’s get out of here!”
He was already loosening a grenade in his belt, as Peter and Harry cleared the doorway. Over their shoulders they saw a group of Germans, charging down upon them, rifles at the ready.
Whilst Peter and Harry rushed for the grapnel, Bill tore the pin out of a grenade and hurled it at the rushing Germans. Then he hurtled after Peter and Harry who were already scrambling over the parapet.
Behind him there was a vivid, orange flash.
While the dust and smoke cleared away to reveal the slaughter on the parapet, Bill nipped over the battlements and shinned down the rope. He let himself slide down the fifteen feet, burning his hands into raw weals and then collapsed on top of Harry.
“Beg pardon, sir!”
They picked themselves up and rushed for the scrub. Peter looked over his shoulder as bobbing heads appeared on the parapet and shots whined after them, ricocheting into the night.
“Come on!” Peter shouted, half dragging Arkwright who was still dazed from the explosion and the rapid turn of events. Head down, Peter streaked across the twenty feet of open ground and hurled himself rolling and twisting into the merciful blackness of the night.
“Harry?” said Peter.
“Coming!” a voice shouted nearby.
Harry crawled close to him. There was another crash!
“It’s me, sir,” Bill panted hoarsely.
“Follow me round to the other side. We’ll work across and round to the gate. Come on, for all you’re worth.”
Now disregarding concealment, Peter stood up and raced through the scrub, stumbling and staggering as he went. He could hear Harry and Bill panting and gasping behind him but he kept on, on — ever onwards, opening the distance between themselves and the dreaded castle walls, streaking for safety and freedom, so near — and yet so very far away.
The southern tower was now abreast of them. Peter reduced his pace to allow the others to catch up. To his right, the twin towers of the gatehouse stood gauntly, still bathed in floodlights.
They dropped flat and, pausing not for breath or rest, crawled as best they could across the open space in front of the gatehouse, until they could see directly inside the courtyard. For an instant, Peter paused, for, from his vantage point, he could see the shattered masonry alongside the western tower which had been damaged by grenades. From here, Jan must have seen Peter’s retreat along the parapet and even now would be drawing the Germans after him and retreating northwards along the clifftop towards the bombardment point, in order to give Peter and Harry time and room in which to reach the boats.
The three fugitives were past the gate now. They rushed for the cliff which was only three hundred yards away, but the desultory firing had grown into a swiftly moving battle. Rugged had stopped bombarding, but now the short stabs of Jan’s fire were only intermittent. His bursts seemed but a few hundred yards away, for Jan was hard pressed by an encircling fire, some of which seemed horribly close to the descent on the clifftop.
Then Peter saw two figures striding backwards, Brens spitting from their hips in wide arcs of fire, and realized that the Commandos had reached the fissure two hundred yards ahead of them.
Peter, Harry and Bill hurled themselves down again, as a crashing in the scrub only a few yards distant bore down upon them. Peter could have reached out and tackled the nearest figure in the group which was advancing in short rushes towards Jan, who had now disappeared over the cliff edge. Peter’s last glimpse of this magnificent Commando was of a shadowy figure hurling grenades towards the p
ursuing Germans, who advanced only cautiously now, none of them relishing suicide.
Peter groaned, “Too late, Harry, we’re cut off. Come on! Let’s try the beach farther down, and try to catch up with them.”
As they doubled back on their tracks before bearing right to the cliff edge, each knew in his heart that their efforts would be in vain. Already the folboats would be well out to sea.
Panting and gasping, they hurled themselves despairingly upon the soft turf at the edge of the cliff while the wind rustled gently through Peter’s hair as he peered towards the little cove. Following the lines of tracer which wandered slowly eastwards, he thought he could just see the faint phosphorescence of thrashing paddles as Jan and his party drove their exhausted way out to sea. Then, still sobbing for breath, Peter and Harry discussed the hopeless situation.
“If I fire one Very light to tell Joe to pick us up tomorrow at the rendezvous, it will give away our position,” Peter said.
“We daren’t do that,” Harry replied. “Can’t we signal them?”
“Of course we can!” Peter answered. “At least we can try. Come on, let’s get out of sight below the clifftop just here, and have a shot!”
From below an overhanging cluster of rocks, fifteen feet below the clifftop, three lonely Britons in a very hostile world watched their chances, so nearly successful, fade into dismal failure. The blue beam of the torch flickered out its pathetic message hopelessly in the general direction of the waiting submarine. If Peter had removed the blue shade, he would have given away their hiding place. For some minutes, his trembling hand, now shaking with a long overdue reaction of nervous strain, flicked out the message, ‘R V — R V — R V…’
With moist eyes, unseen by Harry and Bill in the darkness, Peter replaced the torch in his pocket. Never in his life had he known so deeply the meaning of despair.
“Look, sir!” Bill whispered, pointing with outstretched arm to seaward, and shaking Peter excitedly.
