Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Read online

  Commando: The Complete WWII Action Collection Series, Volume I

  Jack Badelaire

  Commando: The Complete World War II Action Collection Series, Volume I

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2019 (as revised) Jack Badelaire

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  eBook ISBN 978-1-64119-654-3

  Contents

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  Disclaimer

  Historical Note

  I. Operation Arrowhead

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  II. Operation Bedlam

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author’s Note

  III. Operation Cannibal

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  A Look at Commando: WWII Action Collection, Volume II

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  About the Author

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  Disclaimer

  These novels are a work of military adventure pulp fiction. While it takes place against the backdrop of the Second World War, the story and characters depicted here are entirely fictional, and any reference to or use of historical characters is also fictional.

  Historical Note

  Hitler’s Blitzkrieg has ground Europe into submission under hobnailed jackboots and steel tank treads. With the evacuation at Dunkirk, Britain stands alone, a small island nation standing defiant in the path of a ruthless juggernaut.

  Unable to mount a counteroffensive against the Germans, but unwilling to let them rest easy and reinforce their positions unmolested, the British military began the formation of small, independent companies of light infantry raiders, well trained and heavily armed. These elite soldiers would launch swift, decisive attacks against vulnerable targets within German-occupied territory: bridges, communications centers, ammunition, and fuel depots.

  The men who formed these raiding companies were volunteers, men who were not willing to wait at home on English soil for the eventual invasion of Europe, but instead felt the call for action in their blood, the need for danger and adventure, the chance to strike back against the Third Reich. Tough, belligerent, loyal, and above all, brave to the point of madness, these men were the vanguard of an Allied counter-strike against Hitler, the forlorn hope sent to breach the walls of Fortress Europe.

  In naming these men, Britain’s high command remembered the superior marksmanship, field-craft, and cunning of the militiamen who opposed British forces during the Boer wars. Those irregular units, consisting of hunters and ranchers skilled in guerilla warfare, campaigned successfully against far superior British numbers, launching raids and fading back into the veldt time and time again. The Afrikaans name for these units was bestowed upon the British raiders, who now fought their own unconventional war against a vastly superior foe.

  These men were known as Commandos.

  Part 1

  Operation Arrowhead

  Operation Arrowhead

  Kindle Edition

  © Copyright 2019 (as revised) Jack Badelaire

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  Prologue

  Arras, France

  MAY 21st, 1940

  The defence of Arras was coming apart like a ragdoll in the hands of an angry child. Major General Franklyn’s counter-attacking force had bloodied the German advance that day, but the British forces had clearly bitten off more than they could chew, and now they were paying for that folly.

  Lance Corporal Thomas Lynch of the 1st Battalion, Royal Irish Fusiliers, knelt at the top of a low hill and watched the deaths of British tankers. Off in the distance, he saw the trundling forms of Matilda tanks falling back towards the British lines and dying, one by one. The Germans had pressed 88 and 105 millimetre field pieces into service as anti-tank weapons, and they handily accomplished the grim business that lighter 37mm anti-tank guns and the cannons of Rommel’s panzers had failed to perform. Columns of oily black smoke marked where German guns had shattered British armour, and a new column was added to the horizon every few minutes as another tank crew met a horrible, incendiary fate.

  It was time to run, to fall back as they had done repeatedly for the last two weeks. With the British advance halted, the Germans were counter-attacking in force, and Lynch could see panzers and troop transports for the German Panzerschützen - mechanized infantry - closing in fast along the flanks. The infantry would be sweeping ahead, hunting for British anti-tank teams and rear-guard parties screening the retreat. Although the RIF hadn’t been part of the attack, they had been put in place to defend Arras and guard the flanks of the attacking force; now that the British spearhead was bent and blunted, the Germans would attempt to drive British flanking battalions inward and encircle the whole of Franklyn’s forces.

  The RIF First Battalion began falling back by companies, leapfrogging ea
ch other and moving in two hundred yard increments. While the battalion was making good progress, every man began to feel fear coiling in his belly as the Germans grew ever closer. Within a few hours, companies holding the line began to engage the advancing enemy skirmishers with long range rifle and Bren fire, the enemy answering with mortars, tank guns, bursts of machine gun bullets, and most dreaded of all, flights of Stuka dive-bombers called in to deliver precision air strikes and strafing runs.

  Throughout it all, Lynch gritted his teeth and soldiered on. For the most part, he didn’t waste his ammunition firing at the tiny figures in field-grey uniforms scuttling forward. He knew they were too far away to score a reliable hit, and any casualties inflicted on the Germans would simply invite a furious retribution. The only targets Lynch did fire on were the Stukas; any time one of the dive-bombers came within a thousand feet, Lynch took a potshot. He knew the odds of bringing down one of the aircraft with his Lee-Enfield were a million to one, but at least the act made him feel less helpless, and he wasn’t the only one; every Stuka that attacked the battalion received a ragged volley of .303 calibre bullets, to no discernible effect.

  Lynch’s company had just finished holding the line, the German skirmishers unnervingly close and the enemy armour not much further away. The better marksmen in the company, Lynch included, had fired on the skirmishers in an attempt to pin them down, but for every man in field-grey who crumpled to the ground, a dozen seemed to take his place.

  Captain Rourke, Lynch’s company commander, blew his whistle to signal the company retreat. Lynch pushed a charging clip of five rounds into the magazine well of his rifle, closed the bolt, and began to fall back as Mauser fire cut through the air around them, punctuated by the occasional burst of MG-34 bullets scything across the ground as the machine-gunners attempted to find the correct range. Lynch scurried towards the rear in a crouch, spine itching with the dreaded anticipation of being struck in the back by an enemy bullet.

  He was halfway across an open field when he looked back over his shoulder and saw a struggling figure lying on the ground. Glancing left and right at the other men, he realized that Captain Rourke wasn’t among them. There had been a heavy burst of machine gun fire moments after Rourke had signalled the retreat, and the captain made sure he was always the last man off of the line; no doubt he had been wounded, and with the rest of the company falling back, no one had noticed him fall.

  Lynch turned to the man nearest him, a green young rifleman named Edwards.

  “The captain’s back there wounded! Give me a hand, we’ve got to go and bring him up with us.”

  Edwards shook his head and kept moving. “Cor, you’re daft mate! The captain’s had it. We need to get out of here before those Jerry tanks roll right over us!”

  Lynch thrust a finger at his lance corporal insignia. “That’s not a request boyo, that’s an order. We’re going back to get Captain Rourke.”

  By now, several soldiers nearby stopped when they heard Lynch, and he quickly organized a small band of three other men to go with him. The four men ran back across the field, mindful of the rapidly closing tanks and scuttling infantry.

  When they were only a few dozen feet away from Captain Rourke, Lynch spotted movement in the trees beyond their wounded commander. Advancing Germans were moving through the trees and brush on the other side of the field, skirmishers looking to catch British troops who hadn’t fallen back fast enough. A group of five men emerged at the edge of the field, spotting Lynch and his party at the same moment they were seen themselves.

  The German Panzerschützen reacted first, raising their Mauser rifles and unleashing a volley. Two of the men with Lynch were gunned down instantly, shot through and through. The remaining man, young private Edwards, fired his Lee-Enfield, toppling one of the Germans and causing the others to duck. However, there were four other Germans and only two Englishmen still on their feet.

  Lynch had slung his rifle across his back when they set out, to make grabbing and dragging Rourke away that much faster. Unable to reach it quickly, he reached into his jacket pocket and drew a little Colt automatic instead. Almost a year ago, in the summer of 1939, Lynch had been informed his battalion would be part of the British Expeditionary Force assembled to go overseas and halt the German advance. As much as Lynch loved his trusty Lee-Enfield, visions of being stuck with an empty rifle while waves of bloodthirsty Huns advanced with fixed bayonets caused him to go out and purchase a small sidearm to carry with him as a last-ditch defense. The little Colt wasn’t regulation, and he kept the pistol hidden away in one of his jacket pockets, worried that a sergeant or an officer might see it and confiscate it. He had never even taken the pistol out of his pocket among the other men, but now he racked the slide, chambering a round.

  Lynch ducked another volley by the Germans, then brought the pistol up and fired two aimed shots at the nearest German, some fifty feet away. Astonishingly the little gun aimed true, and the man crumpled to the ground, holding his gut. Another Panzerschützen was flung back by a shot from Edwards, who seemed to discover within himself a sterner backbone than Lynch had first imagined.

  By now, Lynch could see the German armour getting closer, and soon there would be no escape. Each of them could only fight or save Rourke, but not both at the same time.

  “Grab the captain and fall back! I’ll keep them covered!” Lynch shouted.

  Edwards looked at him as if he had cracked, but nodded and scurried forward towards the captain while Lynch took careful aim with his Colt and squeezed off three more shots. He saw one of the Germans jerk as if wounded, and the other man ducked after a bullet missed his head by mere inches. The pistol half empty, Lynch dropped it in his pocket, pulled a Mills Bomb from his webbing, armed the grenade and threw it as hard as he could just over the heads of the Germans.

  The two skirmishers threw themselves to the ground just as the grenade exploded behind them. Before the debris had even settled, Lynch rushed forward, pistol in hand. Dashing past Edwards as he crouched over the captain, Lynch ran up to within twenty feet of the Germans. Both skirmishers were picking themselves up off the ground, only to discover one of the British had covered more than half the distance between them.

  Lynch raised the Colt and fired twice at each of the Jerries. The first man died with a bullet through his brain, the shot striking him right below the rim of his helmet. The second man fired his rifle, the bullet snapping past Lynch’s face, but before the German could work the bolt, Lynch emptied the last of his ammunition into the soldier’s chest, knocking him over.

  Their immediate danger gone for the moment, Lynch ran back to help Edwards drag the captain away. As they retreated up the field, Lynch looked back at the bodies of the other two riflemen who volunteered to go with them.

  Like so many others, the men were left where they lay.

  1

  Largs, Scotland

  April 3rd, 1941

  Corporal Lynch sat on his barracks bunk, the guts of a pistol laid out in front of him. The gun was his .32 calibre Colt automatic, and Lynch had just broken the weapon down for cleaning and oiling. Every time Lynch looked at the little pistol, he couldn’t help but remember the brief firefight, now almost a year past.

  Captain Rourke had lived, although he eventually had one of his legs amputated below the knee. Edwards was killed two weeks after Arras by a dive-bomber while waiting to be evacuated from Dunkirk. Lynch and Edwards were given mention in dispatches by Rourke and the battalion commander for their rescue efforts, and soon after returning to Britain, Lynch had been awarded the Military Medal for bravery in battle.

  Although that little silver medal was still with him, tucked away in a battered cigar box underneath his bunk, Lynch valued his Colt automatic even more. He knew that without it, he would never have been able to get Rourke off the field or kill those three Germans, and he likely wouldn’t have survived the encounter. The pistol was his good luck charm, and found its way into his kit for both operations in Guernsey and t
he Lofoten Islands.

  Although Lynch had been eager to get back at the Germans - in fact, it was the very reason he had volunteered for the 3 Commando troop - both of the raids had been a disappointment. Guernsey had been a comedy of errors, surprising only in that half the men didn’t wind up floating face-first in the surf riddled by machine gun fire. Operation Claymore, on the other hand, had been a complete success; the Lofoten Island fish oil refineries had been destroyed, German prisoners taken, Norwegian volunteers recruited.