Axel had a decision to make. It was time to take a gamble. The first reckless attack by the Belmarsh boys had been repulsed with ease but, Axel was pretty sure, the next attack would take place in a very different fashion.
If he had been in charge of the criminal gang then he would have attacked simultaneously from four sides at once. As long as one attack got through and into the inner defenses then it was game over.
So he split his meager army up into four groups, placing one group on each fence. He ensured that each group had one rifleman and an officer. As there were only three officers, he put the priest in charge of the fourth group. Their orders were simple. The riflemen would start shooting as soon as they saw anyone that they thought they could hit and the shotgunners would wait until the enemy got within twenty yards before opening fire.
He also placed the extra villagers with their makeshift spears on the walls with instructions to stick anyone who came within sticking distance.
The easy initial victory had buoyed the villager’s spirits and, although Axel and his fellow officers knew that the victory was almost meaningless, they said nothing to hurt morale.
The second attack happened as Axel had predicted. At a little after three that afternoon the Belmarsh boys charged from four directions at once. But this time their charge was slower. More circumspect as they scanned the ground before them for caltrops and any other nasty surprises that may lie in store.
This slower advance allowed Dom to knock five of them down before they had managed to make more than a dozen yards. When he reloaded and started firing again the group attacking his wall broke and retreated.
Axel’s wall also fared well. His rifleman managed to kill one of the opposition but, as soon as they got within fifty yards, Axel opened up with the old Webley, its massive 455 rounds booming out like a cannon complete with fire and smoke. He fired fast and reloaded just as quickly. Within ten seconds he had hit another four criminals and the group retreated.
Patrick’s rifleman missed all of his shots and the group charging their wall surged within twenty yards before the volley of shotguns fire forced them back. However, they also returned fire and hit two of the villagers.
It was on the priest’s wall that it all went wrong.
Whoever was in charge of the party attacking the priest’s wall used a little more common sense than the others and, instead of simply charging will-he-nil-he, he laid down covering fire as his men inched forward. Using fire and movement they edged closer and closer. Every time that a villager popped up to take a shot at them he was greeted with a fusillade of fire, pinning him back down.
They had almost made the wall when the day was saved by, of all people, the ninety four year old mister Sturgeon.
By now the confusion of gunfire and the screams of the wounded had sent mister Sturgeon spiraling back in time to the Second World War. So, he tottered his way to the wall, stepped up onto one of the ramparts and simply started to fire, point blank, into the faces of the attackers.
‘Take that, you bastard nazis,’ he shouted. ‘Go back to Germany.’ After six shots he calmly reloaded and then recommenced firing. The villagers took advantage of this unexpected turn and all opened up at once. Finally the gang members were driven back.
Attack number two repulsed.
‘Tonight,’ said Axel to himself. ‘The next attack will be tonight.’
He took a deep breath. Exhausted.
Chapter 22