Opening Moves

The ‘Deux’ agent had been shot in the face by a rifle from outside the Château and the man was writhing in agony.

The American held the agent tightly as Ramsey attempted to reassemble the man’s ruined face, removing loose teeth and pressing eyes and nose into rough shape before applying a rough bandage.

A French orderly arrived with two ampoules of morphine and dropped them on the floor next to Crisp before beating a hasty retreat, anxious to be away from the hideous sight.

Ramsey broke an ampoule and plunged it into the man’s thigh. He picked up the second ampoule and hesitated, silently seeking out Crisp’s opinion with his eyes.

A simple nod sufficed and the second ampoule deposited its relief into the Frenchman’s system.

Ramsey lowered the shattered head onto a jacket Crisp had quickly placed there.

Picking up the man’s discarded Beretta35 pistol, Crisp checked the magazine and rechambered the weapon.

Catching the Englishman’s look of disgust he could only shrug.

“It will have to do until something else becomes available.”

“Quite,” commented Ramsey with all the reserve of an archetypal Englishman.

Producing his Webley Mk 6 service revolver, Ramsey replaced the four spent cartridges. The Beretta carried eight rounds in a magazine, whereas the Webley cylinder held only six, but the .455 calibre rounds put people down a lot better than the lighter and less brutal .32 rounds of the Italian origin handgun.

Shaking off the strap from his shoulder, a Thompson was held out to the Paratrooper.

“No spare ammo I’m afraid Marion, but that one’s full. There’s bound to be some more somewhere here.”

Slipping the Beretta into his empty holster, Crisp grasped the sub-machine gun, checking the safety was on. He dropped the magazine out and tested it for weight.

“Thanks John. What are you going to use?”

“Incisive wit and repartee I should suppose.”

The American laughed that laugh they save for the English, partially at the obvious humour but partially at the inherent madness of those from the Old Country.

“Yeah right.”

A heavy machine-gun outside the walls broke the momentary awkwardness between them.

“That’s a .50 cal. Relief is closing up it seems.”

As if in illustration of the likely fragility of their survival, heavy firing erupted from the north wall and lists, as well as renewed sounds of combat from within the living quarters.

“It appears our Russian friends agree with you, Major Crisp. They intend to finish the job right now.”

Shouts came from all points of the Bastion, indicating enemy movements and threats.

“I suggest we hold the stairs. You take the North tower, I will take the main entrance. Best of luck Ryan, and keep your head down.”

“Likewise John, likewise.”

Knocke and Von Arnesen, and for that matter even Anne-Marie Valois, had seen men die in strange and unfortunate ways, but what happened in front of their eyes was a new horror.

Positioned on the wall of the Upper Garden, directly above the return in which Soviet paratroopers huddled, they were covering any attempt to force a passage into the garden, either through the gateway in the north wall or over the top, as had been suggested by the English Major.

Most of the battlement walkways were covered with a tiled roof but a part of this section had seen one of only three hits sustained by the Château during a French artillery attack in early 1945. One shell had landed in the menagerie, killing an old Alsatian herdsman. The second had struck the roof of the Grand Bastion, penetrating but failing to explode. The third had struck the roof of the battlements above the return where Knocke and his party positioned themselves, removing it for a length of twenty metres and blowing away the stonework, leaving a marked elongated U-section removed, an area exposed and decidedly more easy to grapple than other parts of the ancient defences.

Olbricht concentrated on the scaling approach and kept taking quick looks through the portal, refusing to fire, in order to avoid drawing attention to himself and the others.

The grapnel sailed up unnoticed and dropped quickly down, striking the one-armed Engineer on his good shoulder. The metal tool struck stone, a sound that prompted the paratroopers below to haul on the line.

The stunned Olbricht found his right thigh suddenly dragged from him as it was pulled against the stonework by force applied from below. He was painfully pinned against the battlements, parallel with but two feet above the stone floor.

He resisted his pain until the paratroopers below pulled hard to test the line, causing two spikes to penetrate his flesh before exiting the other side and biting into the battlements.

A second grapnel flew over the wall and down the other side, overthrown in the excitement of the soldier using it. He pulled swiftly to bring the device into play.

The grapnel bounced back up the wall and flew across the floor, catching under Olbricht’s neck.

One spike penetrated the back of the skull at the base of the wounded man’s neck.