The photographer spoke first, “We can use this as a diversion to escape to the main road and try and get to the Orne Bridge and the army base there.”
Steiner turned his head in disagreement.
“I don’t think so. Have you seen how many of those things are out there? We could try to get over there though,” he gestured to the church, “and give them a hand. What if those creatures are at the bridge, we’ll never make it. Whoever is at the church seems to have plenty of weapons and ammunition, more than we have.”
Steiner picked up a slightly curved sword; it was a well made 1890 French cavalry trooper’s sword. He looked at it, somewhat confused that it would be in a vicarage of all places. The weapon had a well used brass hilt and a triple bars to protect the hand. The blade was firmly housed inside its steel scabbard. He pulled at the hilt, drawing the weapon to reveal a pristine blade. The edge was fine and unmarked, evidently it had seen little to no use. He gently touched the edge of the blade, it was still sharp. He’d practiced fencing as a boy, though this was a world way from the weapons he had used. He had even been considered for the German team in the ‘36 Olympics but had just missed out.
The man stepped away from the window. He moved up to the German soldier, looking intently at the sword he was examining. He looked up at Steiner and spoke, “Okay, what do you have in mind, soldier?”
Steiner, the rugged but tired soldier from the Ost Battalion looked a sight. His uniform was filthy and his tunic was torn. He had a fresh cut on his cheek and looked every part the rogue. He pulled the bandolier of shotgun shells over his shoulder, looking like some kind of Mexican bandit. In his left hand he held the steel scabbard and in his right he held out the sword. He slid the blade back inside its sheath and pushed it inside his belt. With his hands free he lifted the shotgun from the table and then looked directly at the old man. He gave him a sly grin.
CHAPTER NINE
Lance Sergeant Jones stood in the centre of the nave, amazed at the amount of gunfire they were expending. Looking around he could see the soldiers firing from their positions. The Enfields and Stens blazed away, whilst the steady sound of the Bren and MG42 added to the din. The civilians, especially the two girls, looked terrified. The sound of the weapons was incredibly loud in a building that featured such wonderful acoustics. This was probably not what the original builders had in mind when it was built. Around Jones stood M. Poulain, now armed with one of the Sten guns, plus the two young Frenchman and the middle-aged couple. They were all armed and waiting for his command.
Nearby the three older civilians helped load the bullets into the Sten magazine using the loading tools. As they finished each one the girls took them and rushed them to the defender. It seemed to be going well, apart from the fact that half the bullets had already been used.
A loud thudding sound came from the main entrance; they were now close enough they could reach the walls and the doors. Most of the wailing from the undead seemed to be coming from the southern wall of the nave. Captain Scott shouted over to the altar, calling Archer over with his Bren gun. Cracks started to appear in the doors as the creatures kept kicking, hitting and clawing at the old timber. They couldn’t hold for long. Archer slid to the ground behind one of the pews and swung the weapon around to face the doors. The gunfire in the church continued as the creatures started to claw at the wall, each trying to find a weakness, a way in. The glass windows to the north shattered and hands appeared on the ledges; surely it was too high for them to reach?
With another dull hammering sound a piece of a door tore off, exposing the creatures to the sight of Archer and his Bren gun. He rattled off a handful of rounds, his expert training allowing him to use the least amount of bullets to do the job. One thing you could always count on with the British was discipline and control under fire. The undead beasts disappeared from the entrance, either having been killed or encouraged to look elsewhere for a way in. Archer gave the nave a quick look around, it looked secure, and he looked back to the damaged door and waited. His finger rested near but not on the trigger.
In the base of the tower Lewis defended the small room alone. This wasn’t entirely fair though, as directly above him he was protected by the sustained firepower of the MG42 and the long range shooting of Trent on the Enfield sniper rifle. Moving quickly between the three walls he provided extra shots as and when a target presented itself. So far though, the machinegun was keeping the west end of the church safe and clear.
At the opposite end of the church Smith led the defence of the chancel. Standing on top of the altar Smith had an excellent view of the battle. On his flanks were Wilks and Clarke, each with a Sten gun. Clarke had slid his rifle around onto his back, using the recently acquired Sten due to the extra ammunition and the fact that it was more suited to this type of fighting. Two of the windows shattered and heads and arms appeared, the undead things were trying to pull themselves into the chancel. The three defenders opened fire, the combined firepower cutting through the monsters’ heads and limbs with ease. Clarke squeezed the trigger for a second burst only to find the Sten gun jam. He smashed it down onto the altar, trying to free the jam, swearing at the weapons, “Piece of god damned shit Sten!”
Sergeant Smith slapped him across the face, pointing to the large wooden cross behind the altar. It seemed a strange thing to consider in the middle of such a hellish scenario.
More bodies appeared and yet Clarke could still not clear the jam. They’d found this problem a couple of years before when the first versions of this gun had been manufactured. Though they were simple and effective, the build quality was variable. The airborne soldiers had quickly learnt that you never took an untested Sten into the field. Providing you obtained a known weapon they were strong and reliable. The odd dog of a gun could get you killed though.
Clarke threw the weapon down in disgust and swung his Enfield off his shoulder and loosed off a round from the hip. The powerful .303 round ripped through one of the creature’s shoulders, knocking it from the window ledge. Yet more of them pulled themselves up, at least a dozen of them were now on the window ledges and dragging themselves inside. Two managed to drop into the chancel only to be hit by half a magazine fired by Wilks. The second one, though lying on the ground, managed to grab at his leg and took a deep chunk of flesh from Wilks’ leg. He fell back, crying out in pain.
Smith reached for another magazine for his Sten, he was out. To his left Clarke was stabbing at the creatures with his rifle, the spike bayonet doing fine work. Yet more of them came through the windows. Letting the Sten gun drop and swing back on its sling Smith pulled out his ’38 Enfield pistol.
Smith turned to the nave, shouting to Jones. In the nave area he could see Archer on the Bren gun, blazing away at targets in the windows along the southern aisle of the church. Captain Scott was blasting away with his own M1 carbine, lending his fire to the wall.
“Here!” he cried.
Jones, waiting with his small group immediately spotted the danger and rushed to the altar to assist the defence. Jones got there first, firing bursts from the hip as he ran. The two Frenchmen flanked him, both adding to his fire. The middle-aged couple moved to Wilks, pulling him out of danger and towards the nave. M. Poulain moved up to the altar and fired a shot from his blunderbuss, the shards of lead and thick white smoke engulfing the east side of the church and blasted the last remaining undead out into the cemetery. Clarke moved up to the broken windows and continued shooting with his Enfield rifle. The two Frenchmen joined him, finally forcing back the creatures nearest to the church. Smith called to the girls who ran over, handing out more ammunition to the men. Smith turned to Jones.