The Devil's Rock

We're on the wrong fucking beach.

- Tide turning. - Yeah.

We were moving faster through the channel.

They plonked us around the fucking corner.

No chance getting back around 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 at 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...

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 want to keep your "nursey" waiting, now do we?

Right address this time?

- Path up there. - Oh.

What the fuck was that?

I don't know... and I don't care.

Let's just get the job done and get the fuck 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.

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.

Fuck 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 metals for this.

The girls will be falling all over us!

Give me ten minutes, Joe.

Five.

Fuck.

Fuck it.

Fuck 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?

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 these neighboring islands, which, as the Fuhrer predicted,

are to become the staging post for your invasion of... France.

Your silence is admirable.

Fuck you, Fritz!

It is hungry.

So, should we begin again in a more civilized way?

Or do you wish to end up like you're unfortunate friend over there?

Grogan.

Captain.

75241.

Who is that woman up there?

If only you knew the truth of that.

Oh, I can see the truth... splattered all around this room.

What is she... a plaything for you and your men?

You take a special little fancy to her, yeah? Want her all for yourself?

Even your own army will hang you for this.

This?

You think a single man is responsible for this?

She did this to them!

You're insane.

You may not believe this, but you and I are in the same boat.

Call me picky... but I'm the one who's tied up and threatened

with summary execution here... Fritz.

Meyer... Klaus Meyer.

Perhaps I should rephrase.

We are in the same shit.

I admire your marvelous accent.

South Africa?

Ah, Australia?

Ah!

The guttural... nuance.

New Zealand.

You are indeed... a long way from home.

Same could be said about you.

New Zealanders.

A bunch of farmers pretending to be soldiers,

driving around the deserts of North Africa,

attacking by night,

then fleeing to hide like cowards.

So, where in England will the invasion come from?

Southampton?

Poole?

Which of these islands do you plan to take first? Guernsey perhaps?

Alderney?

Then to France? Which beaches?

Oh, perhaps it is not so bad if we lose these islands

to men like you.

Never yours to lose.

And yet here you are, thousands of miles from home.

And what... exactly is your home, Captain Grogan?

A... island that does not belong to you either,

populated by the descendents of cannibals and headhunters.

Who exactly do you fight for, Captain Grogan? For king and country?

Or for Britain or New Zealand?

We are more similar than you care to admit.

You are a New Zealander.

But of British descent, are you not?

Was not Britain itself a nation of

the Vikings and Saxons, superior Germanic people.

We should be fighting on the same side, not against each other.

But enough of politics.

Very pretty.

Strong features.

Girlfriend?

Wife?

Awaiting the return of her hero husband?

A pity...

if I were to...

Tell me exactly when the Allies

plan to take back these islands.

Go fuck yourself.

Well, that is a soldier's lot

on lonely outposts such as these.

No!

Soon she will be gone.

Who is she?

I have my duty.

Please.

She's Helena.

My wife.

She was my wife.

April 1941, in London.

There was an air raid.

A shelter was hit, hundreds were buried, I went to help.

We found only mangled corpses, women and children.

I made it home in the early hours of the morning.

Our house... our house had been hit.

And, ah...

I dug again, this time alone.

I found her.

What was left of her.

I never got to say goodbye.

The war has taken its toll on all of us.

You say that as if you're not responsible?

I am just a soldier, like you.

No.

No, not like me.

I told you.

We're both in the same shit.

We could've helped each other.

What could I possibly help you with, Meyer?

Torturing female prisoners?

Murdering your own men?

What kind of lunatic special action unit

did they pull you out of?