The Devil's Rock

- We're on the wrong f***ing beach.

- Ah...

Tide turning.

- Yeah.

We were moving faster

through the channel.

- It plonked us around the f***ing 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, sh*t.

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*** was that?

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

Let's just get the job done

and get the f*** off this island.

Ugly-looking place.

This is bullshit.

Where is everyone?

- They're f***ing 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 sh*t going on here.

Bad sh*t.

Bastards. F***in' Nazi bastards.

- No.

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

The gun, that's our mission.

- F*** 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 f***ing medals for this.

The girls will be falling all over us!

- Give me ten minutes, Joe.

- Five.

F***.

F*** 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*** 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*** you, Fritz.

: God in heaven...

It is hungry.

: You b*tch!

You think I have nothing better to do

than feed you?

Whore!

So, should we begin again

in a more civilized way?

Or do you wish to end up

like your unfortunate friend over there?

Grogan.

Captain.

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 sh*t.

I admire your marvellous accent.

South Africa?

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's not so... bad

if we were to 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?

An... 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 that you care to admit.

You are a New Zealander,

but of British descent,

are you not?

Was not Britain itself

a nation of 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?

Pity...

...if I were to...

Tell me exactly when the Allies

plan to take back these islands.

- Go f*** yourself.

- Well, that is a soldier's lot

on lonely outposts such as this.

- 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.

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 hou...

Our house had been hit.

And...

I dug again, this time alone.

And I found her.

What was left of her.

I never got to say goodbye.

This 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.

Ah!

: I told you...

We're both in the same sh*t.

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?

Jews and Gypsies not enough for you?

- I've already told you...

None of those men died by my hand.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes