The last of them began to tumble down, each colliding with minute splashes and spattering. The storm ceased and dried itself up. The clouds sponged up the rainwater and awkwardly shuffled from the sky. Although not as vibrant and poignant as before, the sun emerged from its cavern and hovered listlessly in the sky, seeming to emulate the drear of the rain clouds. One of the victims to the spontaneity of the climate was the quaint town of St Fredrique du Clamont, the turmoil that had spilled onto its streets just moments before signed the warrant for several German soldiers and one British paratrooper.
Williams stood lurched over the bathroom sink. Scarlet fluid was awash over the aqua-tiled floor and sink. Squatting in the sink sat a bullet, a German rifle slug, wrapped in robes of blood and torn cloth. His right arm was plastered with crusty dry blood that wept down the entire length of his arm. The gaping crimson hole in his upper arm shone with crystal clarity. In his left hand, he gripped his side arm, a standard British service revolver (Webley mark six to be precise). He couldn't be too sure the coast was clear. His teeth were permanently gritted to blare out the blinding pain of his arm. He'd plucked the little git out of his arm, it was all he could do for now.
The door behind him creaked. Williams spun around and opened 2 rounds into the plaster wall, that spluttered with a cough of dust and splinters. "Fucking hell! You could've killed me!" Johnson squeaked the door open and walked into the room, Williams was shivering with pain. It was then that Johnson saw Williams' arm and the gore that was spread down it. He recoiled and stood aghast.
Williams opened the medicine cabinet and rummaged around for something to quell the sore. Johnson stood disabled to do anything as Williams frantically grabbed and lashed out for a bottle to soothe his pain.
"You could use that blue bottle on the left. It says it should reduce any pain, and there's some bandages on the shelf above. I'll give you a hand"
Johnson reached into the small cupboard and removed the items to aid Williams. Both men glanced a smile at each other. "Thanks Johnson"
McIntyre nosed the barrel of his gun through the door, then followed by his head. He inspected the room, but only enough for a quick skim. On the floor lay the strewn corpses of five German soldiers, one sustaining a severe head-shot, from seeming close range. He loaded his Sten and crept into the heart of the room. "Ed!" he called out into the murk, "Ed! It's Jim!" he heard a creak from the stairs to his left. He spun and aimed his weapon at the staircase. The soft laboured steps of Williams made their way down the stairs followed by Johnson. McIntyre was relieved to see his friend alive and well. "Ed, you're okay, that's a good spot of luck. I thought…." He saw Williams' arm now bandaged, but still red, "Bloody hell, are you okay?" Williams sighed and slung his rifle over his left shoulder, "I'll survive"
"Listen. Johnson, Williams, we've got a major crisis. There's a mobile German division headed this way, they could be hear any minute. We have to go, Miller and Donahue are outside near the opposite farmhouse. We'll meet up then make our way to the next objective, okay?"
Both men nodded, yet were knocked over by the sound of heavy cannon shells ripping through the unstable structure of the farmhouse. "SHIT!" cried McIntyre, "They're already here! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!" At once all three men burst from the farmhouse and dashed across the courtyard, the bodies of the previous tussle still lying limply on the floor. From the northern road came the crackle of rifle and machine gun fire, accompanied by the bass of the thundering roar of the tank cannons. They ripped into the village tearing each building to rubble and dust. Splinters and shards spat and launched themselves across the courtyard.
Donahue and Miller stood perplexed to the new situation that was unravelling around them. McIntyre grabbed Donahue and Miller and kept running forward into the woodland around the village, closely followed by Williams and Johnson. Williams protested, "But sir, we need to follow the road to the next way point!" McIntyre still gripped Donahue and ran, calling to Williams behind him, "Stuff that! Just keep running!" Bullets began cracking, splintering off the trees they passed, wood, and bark flaring up behind them. They had escaped.
The village was reduced to ruin. The dust began to settle and the German soldiers advanced further into the damage. Nothing was left standing. The iron beasts rolled on into what remained of the town and stopped. The troops assembled into a procession formation, awaiting the command of their commandant. A proud figure emerged from his tank and looked around the devastation that he had instructed, "Men!" he barked out, "This garrison has been lost to us by the intruders to our proud land. Never forget this defeat, or you shall pay with your life, and with the fate of the fatherland!" These words could be heard resonating from the rubble of St Fredrique du Clamont as the remaining five British paratroops fled for escape.
