Smeeth was a small parish that lay on the northern side of the Hythe Road, just eight kilometres south-east of Ashford. With a population of no more than a thousand, the village comprised less than two dozen actual homes and other buildings that were all congregated about the Church of St Mary the Virgin on the Church Road. A small, single-storey structure of grey flint, with two isles and two chancels, the church carried a high, pointed roof and a tower at one end. First built during Twelfth Century Norman times, sections including the chapel and porch had been added between the Thirteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and a restoration during the early 1880s had also seen the original, crumbling tower replaced.
Like the rest of the village, the church had been left deserted as the inhabitants had joined the westward civilian exodus out of Kent ahead of the invasion. The south door was locked securely, and although Thorne could probably have smashed it open, he ultimately decided against it. The building was quite small, with little likelihood of anywhere to hide or to make any kind of creditable stand, and the cannon of the approaching tanks and assault guns would reduce it to rubble with just a few shots anyway… he had no desire to leave himself trapped somewhere with no way of escape.
He ignored the potential for sanctuary within and instead continued west, weaving his way between rows of graves marked with old headstones that were weathered with age and in some cases no longer standing completely upright. Thirty metres further on, a low, ivy-covered stone wall marked the boundary of the parish grounds. On the other side, Church Road rounded a bend to the south and terminated at the A20 (Hythe Rd) just 150 metres away, while in the opposite direction it passed right through Smeeth and continued on to Brabourne Lees, a kilometre or so to the north.
Thorne used every last ounce of strength he possessed to lift himself over the wall, collapsing to the ground on the other side in utter exhaustion. He could still hear the low rumble of panzers drawing inexorably closer, but as he laid his rifle on the ground beside him, he found he was quickly losing the energy to continue his retreat. Thorne felt as if the pressure of all the weeks they’d spent in 1940 was now crashing down on him in that moment as he leaned his back against the hard, stone wall and lifted his head back with eyes closed, struggling to regulate his laboured breathing. He couldn’t tell exactly how close the enemy were now, and they’d not overrun his position yet, but he had no doubt it was just a matter of time.
A flat, open field lay across the other side of the Church Road, bordered by The Ridgeway to the north and the A20 to the south. Darkness had well and truly coming now, and in the failing light he couldn’t clearly make out what was growing in the pastures across the road, but something low and leafy drifted and swayed there in the shadows as a faint and distinctly chilly breeze stirred the mist that was already rising. It was a small consolation that dusk had at least brought with it a cessation of the shelling and general gunfire, although the occasional shot still broke the growing silence here and there behind him.
Even so, Thorne didn’t like the chances of making an escape to anywhere remotely safe, and he inwardly cursed his own arrogance and foolhardiness in placing himself in that position to begin with. The Swordfish was somewhere off to the south-west, on the other side of the A20, and in any case didn’t have sufficient fuel for another flight all the way back to Scapa Flow. His mind was beginning to register the very likely possibility that he was now stranded in Southern England, and that the rest of Hindsight would be forced to leave him behind… a concept that was far from pleasant.
Another few moments and he felt he’d regained his breath sufficiently to return to a crouch, pick up his rifle once more and cautiously lift his head just enough to peer through a gap in the top of the wall where a lost section of stone had left a narrow ‘V’ in the ivy. He ducked instinctively as the crack of a bullet split the air in the distance, and as he lifted his head once more, a second, far nearer shot seemed to indicate someone had indeed aimed in his direction. As he watched carefully, he could now see the indistinct shapes of enemy infantry moving about in unit strength beyond the trees, on the eastern side of the church grounds.
Knowing it would be a pointless exercise, he nevertheless grasped at the shoulder-mounted microphone of his belt radio and made one last effort to contact a relay radio station at one of the nearby local HQs.
“Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… sending on authority code ‘Artemis’… require urgent assistance… please respond… over…” There was a soft burst of static as he waited for a moment, but no reply was forthcoming. “Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… Phoenix Leader calling Dryad Foxtrot… come in please… transmitting on authority code ‘Artemis’… require urgent assistance… please respond… over…” He repeated the transmission a second time, again pausing for a response.
This time the crackle and hiss of interference did in fact make way for a human response, however his initial flash of relief quickly soured as he instantly realised that the cold and rather aggressive voice at the other end of the radio was speaking in a gruff, German accent.
“There is no fucking ‘Dryad Foxtrot’ here now, mein liebes… why don’t you keep talking, and we’ll drop in for a visit, eh?”
“Thanks all the same, fräulein,” Thorne snarled back softly with all the venom he could muster, “but I don’t think I’ll bother… your boyfriends might get jealous… maybe you can all go fuck yourselves instead!” He hissed those last few words with true vehemence before turning the radio off once more and resting his forehead against the wall, banging it gently as if that action might somehow jar loose a solution to the problem from his muddled mind.
Another moment, and he caught the unmistakeable sound of human voices nearby. Using the wall to bolster his tired body and steady the aim of the rifle, he dropped to one knee and sighted along the top of the weapon, keeping both eyes open and seeking out any likely target as the voices drew closer. A large tree stood not far beyond the eastern end of the church building, and a pair of SS troopers on point duty were moving slowly past it, heading in his direction through the grey half-light with weapons at the ready. Thorne waited, setting the fire selector on the Kalashnikov to semi-automatic and closing one eye as he aimed carefully. They were no more than sixty metres away, but he wanted to be sure of where he was aiming in such poor visibility conditions.
He let loose with two quick, aimed shots apiece that dropped both men instantly and left them crying out in agony, surrounded by the graves and ancient headstones as the gunfire immediately brought the rest of their squad running. A few shots came his way that randomly whined off the wall some distance away, none of them close enough to cause him any concern for the moment. Two more men fell in similar fashion before the rest of the patrol hit the ground and took cover. He kept the men at bay for a few more minutes, but Thorne knew his luck wasn’t going to hold much longer. More infantry would arrive and would try to flank his position — not difficult considering he was completely alone — and there were also tanks nearby that wouldn’t be bothered in the slightest by fire from his assault rifle.