The Devil's Rock

- We're on the wrong fucking beach.

- Ah...

Tide turning.

- Yeah.

We were moving faster

through the channel.

- It plonked us around the fucking corner.

- No chance getting back round the coast

fighting that rip.

I was hoping for a cup of tea and a cake.

- Better get off this beach.

- Mines?

- Bound to be.

: Ben...

Got a date tomorrow.

: Let me guess.

You met her down the pub.

Nurse, huge tits.

- Like a pair of ripe melons

ready for the plucking.

She's got this friend...

I was...

You've got to move on sometime, Ben.

Look, just come along,

have a bit of fun.

Her friend's a real doll.

She's tall, ugh, blonde.

Legs all the way up to her armpits.

Ben...

- We haven't got time for this.

I'm walking it.

- Oh, shit.

I was just admiring the view.

My little nurse is not gonna be too happy

if I leave my crown jewels

blown all over this beach.

You better back off, Ben.

- I trust you.

If you marry her and have kids...

you better bloody well

name one after me.

- Slow... and steady this time.

Better get on with it.

Don't wanna keep the nursey

waiting now, do we?

- Right address this time?

- Path up there.

- Oh...

- What the f*ck was that?

- I don't know, I don't care.

Let's just get the job done

and get the f*ck off this island.

Ugly-looking place.

This is bullshit.

Where is everyone?

- They're fucking torturing

some poor bastard in there.

- This isn't a rescue mission.

- What if it's one of ours?

You know what those bastards did

to Blondie's men in Bordeaux.

- It's not our mission.

: Jesus.

Jesus Christ in heaven!

Help... Help us, please!

- There's bad shit going on here.

Bad shit.

Bastards. Fuckin' Nazi bastards.

- No.

It's not our war. This is our fight.

The gun, that's our mission.

- F*ck the mission.

- Jesus Christ.

We leave. Now.

We get out alive.

We get back home.

- Back home to what?

- Look, we've done what we came here to do.

We'll get fucking medals for this.

The girls will be falling all over us!

- Give me ten minutes, Joe.

- Five.

F*ck.

F*ck it.

Bravo Seven Foxtrot,

this is Alpha Nine Golf. Over.

Bravo Seven Foxtrot,

this is Alpha Nine Golf. Over.

Bravo Seven Foxtrot,

this is Alpha Nine Golf. Over.

Bravo Seven Foxtrot,

this is Alpha Nine Golf.

Request radio check. Over.

Bravo Seven Foxtrot,

this is Alpha Nine Golf. Over.

- F*ck you.

- Joe...

- Name...

Rank...

Number. Yes?

Good teeth.

Clean.

Some people I know in Germany

actually collect teeth.

Perhaps I should cut

that useless tongue out.

But what use are you, if you can't...

talk to me, yes?

You can thank your own people

for this little trick.

Was it not your own gangster commandos

who raided these very islands,

killing innocent German prisoners

with their hands tied behind their backs?

Cathartic, is it not?

The release of pain surging

through your body.

What was your mission?

- Hmm...

- Not enough to destroy the installation,

but adequate...

to put it out of action for a while.

Why?

To protect your armies...

as they cross the English Channel

and... retake these islands?

You're a little late,

aren't you?

The population here is so hungry...

they're reduced to eating rats.

What is this English... Channel... anyway?

Does anybody outside of England

call it that?

Do the people of these... Channel Islands

even think themselves English?

So, you planned to put the gun

out of action.

And presumably others

of the neighbouring islands,

which... as the Fhrer predicted

are to become the staging post

for your invasion of... France.

Your silence is admirable.

- F*ck you, Fritz.

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