Doyle was at the top of the steps now. He waited against the wall as two more German’s came running out. Incredibly they didn’t see him. The first one ran past, the second Doyle shoulder barged clean off the stairs. He fell twenty feet to the courtyard and lay screaming with a broken back. Rushton killed the man rushing headlong down the stairs and sent a burst into the screaming German. Normally he wouldn’t have wasted the bullets but the man’s cries were getting through to his nerves. Now the S.A.S. ran up the steps single file keeping close to the wall. Rushton moved up so that he was at their head. Doyle right behind. The swastika flag was hanging limply from a pole. The light breeze when it came, playing with it. There was a double wooden door at the top, the only way in to the fortress building, a square tower eight hundred years old. The other entrances came from other stairs. Rushton quickly scanned the crennelated walls for signs of trouble. There didn’t appear to be any Germans on the walls. In the old days of various empires siege weapons and cannons once adorned these battlements. Today on top of the square stone tower there was a German 88. This was used to protect the harbour.
“There is an 88mm gun on the roof Doyle. We need to capture it.”
“Yes Sir.”
Rushton poked his head once inside the door. There was no one in sight.
“Go. Go. Go!”
Doyle led them in. Almost instantly they were fired upon from the far end of the hall. Two German soldiers were using an over turned table as cover. Doyle sent a burst at them. The table top splintered as the bullets hit it. He reloaded. The Germans both raised their heads. Doyle fired again missing them just as they ducked into cover. Men on either side moved up. The Germans looked up from their cover. They instantly saw the danger and decided to run for it. The S.A.S. fired into their backs, killing them. Further back in the hall Germans could be seen retreating through the building. From behind a door Doyle could hear a voice talking quickly. He kicked the door in. The radio operator turned as he stood. Doyle pulled his pistol out and shot him twice in the chest. He fell slumped over his equipment. Doyle took the operator’s head phones off his head and held one of them to his ear to listen to the frantic voice at the other end. Doyle spoke in German into the headset. The voice at the other end fell quiet, then calmly asked who had spoken. The voice repeated the question.
“You’ll never know,” Doyle said.
He reached out and ripped the headset out of the radio then pulled its main power supply out. The lights on it slowly dimmed. Doyle fired two shots into it smashing the dials on the front.
Rushton was in the doorway.
“What were they saying?”
“There is no help coming for them.”
Rushton sighed with relief.
“Thank God for that.”
“We’ve done it Sir. We’ve got them on the run.”
More machine gun fire could be heard further away as Rushton’s men pursued the fleeing Germans through the building and out on to the battlements.
Down they ran, running for their lives. Every time one of them stopped to fire at the British he was cut down. Their rifles too slow to take aim compared to the Stens. Once on the ground the Germans broke into panic and fled into the streets. All thought of fighting gone now. Their only instinct left was to survive. Some of them even throwing down their weapons and equipment to speed up their escape. Without officers to lead them desertion didn’t even enter their heads. All had one thing on their minds.
Make it to the docks!
To the ships!
To safety!
Doyle burst up the steps to the top of the square tower. Rushton right behind. The German 88mm gun was unmanned. It had been abandoned in a hurry. Crates of shells lay opened everywhere. Empty shells were piled in a corner. Doyle patted the long barrel, whistling.
“She’s a beauty.”
Rushton was pleased that they’d taken it without a fight. In one corner of the tower was a pole, hanging high above them a swastika flag. Rushton walked over to it, drew out a long knife and cut through the ropes. The flag fell to the roar of his men.
“Doyle you know how to operate the gun don’t you.”
“Yes Sir but it requires three men to fire it.”
“Find two others to help you. Train it on the harbour. Fire on any boats that attempt to leave. If Lieutenant Dennis is successful he will release green flares. If he cannot complete his mission he will signal red. That is your signal to blow those boats out of the water.”
“Yes Sir. And our men?”
Rushton looked down at the harbour.
“They will be in the hands of God.”
Koenig stopped to catch his breath. He pointed his pistol back the way he’d come, ready to fire at the first of them. There were two of them. That much he knew. They had fired at him already, missing him. When he saw there was no sign of them he lowered his pistol.
Had he lost them?
How far he had run he didn’t know. In which direction. He didn’t know. Exactly where he was now he didn’t know. He had weaved his way through alleyways and streets. He had hoped by now to have found the harbour but he had not seen it once. His lungs ached. He had lost his elegant officers hat. His feet hurt from the running. It had been a long time since he had seen a parade ground, since he’d had to march alongside other recruits. His throat felt constricted and he brought up his free hand and loosened the top button on his shirt. He ripped his tie off and threw it to the ground. He was able to control his breathing now and he took a few deep breaths while rubbing his aching chest. He wiped his jacket sleeve across his mouth. He was thirsty. The cool air around his neck felt invigorating. His breathing completely controlled now.
He held his breath as he thought he heard running feet and voices. He couldn’t be sure but that was what it sounded like. No, more like echoes. He put his head against the wall behind him, feeling its coolness, as he exhaled, eyes closed.
“Hello Fritz,” spoke a voice by his ear.
Koenig’s head spun around.
The S.A.S. man was two feet away. A knife in his hand. Koenig lashed out and chopped the Englishman in the throat with the edge of his hand. He staggered back winded as Koenig brought his knee up into his enemy’s groin. A groan escaped the wounded man’s lips as he sank slowly to his knees. A shot rang out, missing the German Colonel by inches. It left a perfect hole in the wall by his head. Koenig wasted no time in dashing off down the street to his right as the man who had fired the shot ran up.
Had Koenig thought he probably could have killed them both there and then. Certainly the man on the ground with his hands between his legs but his only thought was to once again run. To get as far away as possible.
“Jack! Jack! Are you all right?” Terry Smythe asked his friend, holding out a hand to help him up.
“Bastard kicked me in the bollocks,” Jack struggled to his feet. He coughed and spat blood, “I’ll cut his off and shove them down his throat.”
“He won’t get far. Not now. The water’s not much further and he’s headed straight for it. Come on.”
Jack hobbled after his friend.
On and on Koenig rushed. Along streets and alleys. His leg muscles hurting now, his breathing coming in short rasps. He knew for definite now that if they caught him they would kill him as slowly and as cruelly as they could. This thought alone took him through the red mist of pain and drove him ever onwards. He raced down a poorly lit alley and crashed headfirst into a large pile of terracotta octopus pots. He tumbled over them, sending them chinking and smashing against each other. They continued to fall and break as he tumbled into a heap. He struggled to his feet, slipping on pot shards and large pieces of terracotta. He’d banged his left knee so hard that he couldn’t actually feel his toes and he hopped on it as one does when they have pins and needles. The pain from this was a hundred times worse. He’d also banged his head and when he placed his fingertips on it he winced at the pain from the fresh bruise. Within a minute it was a big bump. Then he remembered his assailants would be gaining on him and he limped off as quick as he could. He cleared the end of the alley. The pots had been outside a fish processing factory. He fell at the end into the road. He wanted to give up now, to accept his fate. He heard running footsteps approaching from behind. The sound of feet treading on broken pottery. Koenig rose slowly and was suddenly aware that he was almost at the water‘s edge.