Pigeod Bloon Prologue Page 8

Warriors, May 1942

Mijnkeer Hank Tromp was approaching a Southampton pub when the noise of a scuffle in the abutting alley drew his untamed curiosity.

The first Tommie said, with a mean streak marking his tone, "What’s a matter Frog, your tongue stuck? Come on, croak for us."

The second Tommie, nastily, and pulling a knife, added, "Maybe we should cut it out, and feed it to the rats."

There were chuckles from all four British Tommies backing a lone Free Frenchman against the alley wall. The target of their harassment was a blond haired short giant, with huge arms and hands. His eyes were in continuous motion, darting from one foe to the next. For their part, the Tommies had had too much to drink. Their taunting was needed to

goose their nerve into doing something they would not do sober, but would like to. Their kind was forever hating somebody.

The Britishers were so intent on the prey, they did not hear the Dutch Captain approach from the rear. Without warning, and as hard as he could, Tromp kicked the knife wielder in the back of his right knee. The fellow went down, his blade skidding across the alley. Instinctively, the other three Tommies turned to the new danger. The Frenchman, momentarily free of their attention, bounded forward. Using his great arms, he encircled two of the ruffians about their necks, choking them while seemingly oblivious to the blows they were raining on his body. Tromp attacked the remaining man. There were grunts aplenty coming from the alley.

Though the Frenchman could handle two of the Tommies, Tromp had all he could do to keep his opponent at bay. To make things worse, the