Colin Forbes: The Heights of Zervos

Close to the wall, Grapos paused and lifted himself half-out of the gulley at a point where a large boulder hid him from the gatehouse. This was the position he must take up to cover Macomber when he had arranged the ascent of his companions. Dropping back into the gulley, he ran forward again and clambered out where the ravine ended at the base of the wall. They were now hemmed in by the corner, invisible from the farther extension of the wall unless someone came out onto a balcony. Ford took up a position where he could observe the receding wall while the lieutenant gazed upwards, his machine-pistol hoisted. It took Grapos less than a minute to prepare the rope for throwing, a rope weighted at the tip by the metal hook, and when he hurled it upwards and inwards the hook trapped itself on the floor of the projecting side-balcony •twenty feet above them. Taking a long breath, Grapos jumped up the rope, held on, swayed briefly like a pendulum as he tested its resistance, then dropped to the ground again and glared at Prentice.

'It is good – but you must be quick. You remember the way?'

'Perfectly!' Prentice glanced at bis watch, looped the machine-pistol over his shoulder, began to climb the rope hand over hand, his legs stiffened, his boots pressed against the roughened stonework as he half-hauled, half-walked himself up towards the balcony. The shaky structure trembled a little under his progress, but he ignored the warning of its instability, climbing faster as he got the hang of the ascent. If the bloody thing came down, it came down. Neck or nothing now. His face eased up to balcony level and he saw the hook firmly embedded between the open floor-boards. One final heave and he was clutching the shaky rail, hauling himself over the top, standing on the floor with the closed shutters behind him. He propped the machine-pistol against a post where he could reach it easily, looked over, saw that Ford had already tied the rope round bis body and under his armpits. As he started to haul up the sergeant Grapos was slipping back inside the gulley and running along it to take up position behind the boulder.

Hauling up Ford proved strenuous: the sergeant tried to help by splaying his feet against the wall, but he was unable to lift himself by his hands which were concentrated on gripping the rope, so the lieutenant had to haul up his full weight length by length, the rope taut over the balcony rail which was shuddering under the pressure, the floor quivering under his feet as Grapos' warning flashed through his mind. 'The balcony has not been used for many years because it is dangerous…' Sweating profusely, his arms almost strained from their sockets, his legs trembling with the arduous exertion, Prentice saw a tangle of dark hair appear, a hand grasp the floor edge, and then the railing gave way, collapsed inwards like broken matchwood. He jerked in more rope, his back pressed hard into the shutters, his feet driving into the floor as he heaved desperately and Ford was half-dragged, half-scrambled his way through the smashed rail and ended up on his knees on the balcony. The sergeant was still recovering his breath, blood was still oozing from his left hand where the wood had gashed it, while Prentice untied the rope, released him from it, and then dropped the rope end down to the ground for Grapos to use later. 'All right, Ford?' he croaked, leaning against the shutters as he reached out for the machine-pistol.

'Just like the obstacle course at Chester, sir.' He stood up cautiously and unlooped his own weapon. 'But maybe I need a refresher course. We'd better get inside – I can hear Mac coming.'

The clattering rattle of the approaching half-track was in their ears as Prentice dealt with the process of getting in. He used his machine-pistol butt to club the latch and the woodwork splintered swiftly under his third blow. Without realizing that the shutters opened outwards, he used his shoulder to go through them, head tucked well in as he rammed his body against and through the breaking shutters with such force that the impetus took him half-way across the room before he could pull up. He hardly saw the room: faded religious murals on the stone walls, a cloth-covered table, an ikon; then he reached the varnished door and opened it with great care. The musty odours of the unused room were in his nostrils as he peered both ways along a deserted corridor and from beyond the balcony he heard the grumble of the oncoming half-track. They'd cut the timing pretty fine. Beckoning to Ford, he ran down the passage to his left. It was like running through a cloister – wooden archways at intervals and large windows to his right which looked down on the square below – and the only sound in the monastic silence, now the walls had muffled the half-track's approach, was the sound of his clumping boots as he ran full tilt for the staircase at the end. He paused briefly when he arrived at the corner, looked to his right where another deserted corridor ran along the second side, glanced up the empty staircase and ran up it, turning at a landing before running up the second flight. On the second floor an identical view faced him – corridors stretching away from the corner in two directions. To his right, at the far end, Ford, who had just emerged from his own staircase, raised a thumb. Prentice returned the signal and went over to the nearest window, hid himself behind a section of the wall and waited.

In less than thirty seconds he saw the half-track coming backwards into the yard, but gave the vehicle only a brief glance as his eyes searched the windows across the square at different levels. His waiting time was very short – the half-track had entered the square, had reversed direction and started driving forwards round the square below them when a window opposite opened and two German soldiers leaned out to stare down at the half-track's mad career round the square. Prentice raised his machine-pistol, thrust the muzzle sharply through the glass, and the shattering noise was lost in the long burst as he sprayed the window steadily, saw the Germans crumple and disappear as movement higher up caught his eye. Through an open window on the top floor another German was aiming his rifle downwards at Prentice when Ford's machine-pistol opened up with a murderous rattle, one much shorter burst, short but lethal. The German with the rifle lost his weapon and followed it down into the yard below as Macomber sped towards the church. A burst of answering fire from farther along the top floor hammered Prentice's shattered window as he jumped back behind the wall. He heard Ford's weapon replying as something moved behind him. He swung his gun round, knowing the magazine was almost empty, and the muzzle pointed at Grapos who froze at the top of the stairs. He must have come up the rope like a charge of electricity.

The explosion came as Prentice, inserting a fresh magazine, was grinning crookedly at Grapos. The grenade landed midway along the corridor between Ford and the lieutenant, but Grapos had seen it fly in through a window and was sheltered behind the staircase. 'Jesus, this is getting rough,' Prentice muttered half to himself. He knocked a shard of glass from his sleeve, staring down at the Greek who stood with his rifle and the rope looped afresh over his shoulder, and started to move round the corner into the next corridor. Ford, protected by a section of wall, was firing again across the yard as the German on the top floor opposite changed tactics. He must have assumed that there were men spread along the side corridor because suddenly a stream of bullets began shattering every window along the passage Prentice was about to move into. Glass was strewn over the floor, bullets scarred the inner wall while the lieutenant, safe behind the wall in the next corridor he shared with Ford, waited for the barrage to cease. The next grenade landed closer to Ford, sent a fresh shock wave in both directions, and for the first time Prentice grasped what was happening.