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

  Lance Corporal White was shown the partisans’ one functioning wireless set, and after ensuring that the wireless was in proper working order, White sent out a brief coded message to the listening station in England tasked with monitoring their communications. White also presented the partisans with the wireless set taken from Bieber’s armoured car, and began discussing with the partisan signals team ways in which the two sets could coordinate attacks.

  While this was going on, Price asked McTeague and the other Commandos to begin a thorough inventory of all the partisans’ weapons and munitions, again with an eye towards what was most badly needed and could be airdropped at a future date. Most critical were explosives such as grenades and mines, as well as demolition charges and sabotage incendiaries. Price knew that once an invasion of France was under way, a strong resistance and saboteur movement would be vital to the invasion’s success.

  While his men were thus engaged, Price found himself acting in the role of diplomat. Although Bouchard was considered by many to be the “soul” of this body of partisans, there were local leaders that he deferred to regarding many things. After all, Souliere reminded Price, Bouchard was a city-dweller from Calais before the war, a recent arrival in the area. Price could now see a distinct difference between the two groups that made up this body of resistance fighters. There were those who were Bouchard’s men, who had come here with him from further Calais, and there were those who were local to the area, who had perhaps only recently joined the resistance. The former group carried themselves with a far more militant and aggressive air, while the latter appeared more bemused and unsure of themselves, handling their weapons with unfamiliarity.

  “Are all of Bouchard’s men former soldiers?” Price asked Souliere.

  “Most, yes, but not all. Several are like him, men who lost loved ones at the beginning and took up arms right away. They have been fighting against the Nazis for almost a year now. All have killed at least one German, and most have killed several.”

  “A regular Leonidas and his Spartans, it seems.”

  “Oui. But unlike the Greeks, our Persians have already conquered here.”

  “Do you think Bouchard wants his own Battle of Thermopylae? Leonidas died in the end, as did all his men. Are these people prepared to die at his command?” Price asked.

  Souliere shook his head. “Bouchard is already dead inside. He just wants to take as many Germans with him as he can. If we did not fight with him, it would not matter. He would walk to Berlin with a grenade in his hand and try to kill Hitler on his own.”

  “The fellow has pluck, that’s for sure.”

  Suddenly, a hush fell over the camp. Heads turned, searching for a sound half-heard through the trees.

  It was the sound of a lone engine, racing closer. The sound changed, grew deeper, the sign of a transmission shifting down, the vehicle slowing, turning off the road and coming closer. Partisan sentries hurried back from the edge of the treeline, shouting.

  The rescue party had returned.

  20

  Lynch stumbled out of the armoured car, Thompson slung over his shoulder, and helped Bowen carry out Nelson and Chenot. Hall reached the car before it even finished rolling to a halt, and he immediately began to go to work on the two wounded men. Several of the partisan women took Marie away to a remote corner of the camp. Finally, grim-faced volunteers removed the remains of Henri and Pierre from the car, sluicing out the blood and gore with several pails of water from a nearby stream.

  Slumped on the ground, drinking water from offered canteens, Lynch and Bowen moved to stand and salute as Price walked over to them. The lieutenant motioned them to sit, and he took a knee in front of them.

  “Well lads, in spite of the great cost, it appears mission bloody accomplished.”

  Bowen merely nodded, but Lynch spoke up. “The Huns were sleeping on the job. It got hot for a bit near the end, but Rhys here pulled us through. If it hadn’t been for that ruddy ack-ack gun at the end of town, we’d have been away almost unscathed.”

  “Any idea of enemy casualties?” Price asked.

  Lynch shrugged. “Chenot and I chewed up a couple squads while playing cat and mouse after we struck the town hall and nabbed the girl. Not sure what sort of mess Nelson and Pierre created, but I am sure it was bloody. The two of us nearly ran our guns dry. Perhaps twenty or thirty casualties, maybe more? Bloody hard to tell in the dark.”

  Price nodded. “Well, that is a damn good showing. Between the action at the barn and your mission in town, we’ve probably halved Jerry’s garrison. Can we presume Nelson’s sabotage of the German lorries was successful?”

  “No idea, sir. We can only hope. One thing’s for sure though; those Jerries are going to turn over every rock and dig up every shrubbery to find us.”

  “I imagine so. We need to send a message and request an early extraction. Between the Souliere’s farm and your action in town, I think we have accomplished the mission of working together with the French and establishing some manner of rapport. Now it is time to lay low and survive until tomorrow night.”

  “Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Bowen replied.

  Price stood, dusted off his uniform trousers, and gave the two men a quick salute. “The two of you should get some food in your bellies and a few hours of rest. The Germans are going to be putting on quite a show to find us, and when they do, we want to be ready. Bouchard is hoping to pull off an ambush, preferably along the road, where we could wipe out a motorized column and be off before they know what hit them.”

  Lynch nodded. “Very good, sir.”

  As Price walked away, Bowen turned to Lynch. “What are the odds that the Frenchies will make cack of it?”

  “More to the point,” Lynch replied, “what do you think the odds are that one of us will pay for it?”

  “Such cheerful thoughts you have.”

  “Life as one of His Majesty’s finest.”

  Forgetting entirely about a hot meal, the two men soon fell asleep leaning against the cannon-riddled hull of the armoured car.

  Lynch awoke slowly, able to tell that he hadn’t gotten anywhere near the amount of sleep his body was demanding, but something, some outside stimulus, had prodded him from his slumber. Looking around, Lynch realized that the prodding outside stimulus was, in fact, Sergeant McTeague’s rather enormous combat boot making repeated contact with Lynch’s thigh.

  “Alright, laddie. On yer feet, naptime is over,” McTeague growled.

  Lynch attempted to stand and nearly fell over, his arse completely asleep. Stumbling about as if drunk, leaning against the armoured car for support, he muttered a string of curses.

  Meanwhile, McTeague was also prodding Bowen awake. The little Welshman roused himself without fanfare, yawning and stretching. Halfway through his motions, Bowen froze, cocking his head to the side.

  McTeague nodded. “Hear it, do ye?”

  Lynch halted his stream of profanity and listened. Faint at first, but the sound was unmistakable; he had spent a month dreading it while fleeing across the whole length of France.

  “Stukas,” Lynch muttered.

  “Aye,” McTeague said. “Been hearing ‘em off and on for a couple of minutes now. They’re cuttin’ trail, like a tracking hound.”

  “Looking for us,” Bowen surmised.

  McTeague nodded again. “If they find us, they’ll radio the Jerries on the ground and direct them here while they bomb and strafe us, breakin’ us up and wearing us out. By the time the ground troops find us, all they’ll have to do is mop up. We’ll be easy game for that lot.”

  “So what do we do?” Lynch asked.

  “Price is with White over by the wireless with a Frenchie who can speak Jerry. They’re doin’ their best to try and catch word from the Stukas, find out if they’ve spotted us. If we can have a little warning, at the very least, we can hope to scatter and make ‘em work for their supper.”

  “Making it difficult just means we wait out strafing and bombing runs unti
l the Jerries show up with machine guns and mortars.”

  McTeague grunted. “Price is cleverer than you lot give ‘em credit for. He’ll have the Stukas pipped, just you see.”

  “With what?” Bowen asked. “Is he going to shoot them out of the sky like quail?”

  “Never you mind. Get your kit sorted and be ready tae fight. Get some food in your bellies, too. It’s gonna be a long day.”

  Lynch and Bowen did their best to follow McTeague’s orders. Although Bowen hadn’t fired a shot from his Enfield rifle since he cleaned it last, he still took a few minutes to examine and clean the weapon again. Several 20mm cannon fragments had penetrated the leather carrying case, but the only damage done was to the wooden stock. Nevertheless, Lynch noted how Bowen tutted and fretted over the rifle’s condition like a parent whose child has scraped a knee.

  Lynch’s own weapons needed considerable servicing. He cleaned his revolver, Thompson, and fighting knife; all three weapons were filthy and blood-spattered. Lynch also re-stocked on ammunition, pilfering from Nelson’s magazine pouches and acquiring his own last few magazines from the kit he left behind before the rescue mission. His revolver ammunition was also sorely depleted and he had no grenades left. The Commandos all worked together to redistribute the ammunition load, including ammunition and grenades taken from Smith and Green.

  When he finished tending to his own kit, Lynch cleaned Nelson’s Thompson and his sidearm. The submachine gun was given to Trooper Johnson, while Nelson was given his reloaded revolver for self-defense. Hall had cleaned Nelson’s four bullet wounds and picked out over a dozen small fragments of shrapnel, then applied sulfa powder, bandages, and a syrette of morphine. Lynch tucked the revolver back in Nelson’s holster and buttoned the flap closed. Patting the wounded Commando on the shoulder, Lynch offered him some consolation.

  “Harry, you tough old goat, you owe me a pint when we get back home for cleaning your kit.”

  “I don’t owe you anything Lynch, you worthless Irish bugger,” Nelson grinned. “I’ll just have to clean it proper when we get back, because you’re too much of a lazy bastard to do it right.”

  Lynch chuckled. “Johnson’s going to hold onto your Thompson and look after it for you, but I’ve given your revolver back. Just don’t shoot Hall if he’s too much of a mother hen.”

  Nelson shook his head. “After that lovely tot of morphine, he’s alright in my book. Don’t kill too many Huns without me, hey?”

  Lynch smiled and patted Nelson on his unwounded shoulder. “Sure thing Harry, I’ll save a few of the Boche just for you. Now get some rest.”

  Standing up, he glanced at Hall with a worried, questioning look. Hall smiled and shook his head. “He’ll be all right. Nothing serious was hit, no bones broken or vital organs damaged. He’s very lucky, and he’ll be abed for a while when we get back, but with a little luck he’ll make a good recovery.”

  When, not if, he says. Lynch thought. Hall certainly is the optimist. Lynch knew no one wanted to say it, but he was beginning to feel like the odds of their returning, tonight or any night, were becoming slimmer by the moment. Although they were miles further to the south and west of Merlimont than the Souliere’s farm, the Germans weren’t going to give up on looking for them, not after last night, and the further they ran from the area around Merlimont, the further they were from the coast. They had about - Lynch checked his watch, noting the time as just past eight in the morning - fourteen hours before they needed to be waiting on the beach, keeping an eye out for the trawler’s signal torch.

  A shout broke his contemplation. Turning, Lynch saw activity around the partisan’s wireless set. He walked over and called to Price. “News, Lieutenant?”

  Price turned, his face grim. “The Stukas. One of the bloody pilots saw our tyre tracks cutting across the field.” Price pointed up into the air. The sound of an airplane engine was decidedly louder now.

  “What are your orders, sir?” Lynch asked.

  “The pilot is calling in the other two planes. Once they’re here, we’re in for a brawl. Get the Frenchies mobilized and ready to scatter, and get Nelson, Chenot, and the Boche wireless set into the armoured car.”

  “Then what, are we going to try and fight?”

  Price shook his head. “I’m hoping we won’t have to.” He turned to White, who was manning the wireless set with a German-speaking French assistant. “Time to call in the cavalry. Send a message home: Arrowhead calling Longbow, request volley fire, enemy knights are charging. Give them our map coordinates.”

  White nodded and began dialing in the right frequency. Price turned to Lynch. “If you’ve got any of that Irish luck tucked away in your back pocket, corporal, now is the time to hand it out. We’re all going to need some right quick.”

  The droning buzz of more approaching airplanes quickly grew louder. Sensing the air attack was nigh, the Commandos and partisans broke camp and scattered into the trees, spreading themselves out and seeking shelter in any divot or dip in the ground, tucking themselves into the roots of trees or wedging into the shadow of a half-buried boulder. Lynch helped Hall get Nelson and Chenot into the armoured car, then the two of them drove it out of the camp area, hunkering down in the vehicle. Although no protection from a direct hit or even a close blast, at least the car’s armour plating would stop most bomb fragments...or at least that is what the two men hoped.

  Less than a minute later, the Stukas began their attack.

  21

  For half an hour, the three planes had crisscrossed over the territory around Merlimont, passing over roads, farms, fields, and woodlands like a pack of hunting hounds cutting the trail in order to find game spoor. The six men who made up the Stuka flight crews were all veterans of dozens of combat sorties over the last two years, and they had a great deal of experience in spotting the tell-tale signs of lorries and heavy armour moving across open ground. To these men, the tyre tracks cutting through an open field were as obvious as a lighted sign pointing towards their quarry.

  Once the flight formed up, the three attack planes wasted no time in beginning their dive-bombing runs, rolling in over the target area and plunging towards the ground at an almost ninety-degree angle. At five hundred metres above the target, each of the Stukas dropped their centerline 250-kilogram bomb, staggering the impacts so that each landed roughly a hundred metres from the last.

  Of the three bombs that fell, the first utterly destroyed the two lorries captured by the partisans. The drop was shockingly accurate, placing the bomb between the two vehicles without the Stuka pilot even being able to see his target. Both of the transports came apart with wood and steel flying for dozens of metres in every direction, great plumes of fire and smoke erupting as their petrol tanks blew from the blast. Two partisans were injured by the flying debris, though neither wound was serious.

  The second bomb did little more than punch a deep crater in the ground and blow several trees into kindling. Considering that the crater was close to the center of the partisan camp, the idea to run and hide had been a good one. The armoured car had originally been parked close enough to the crater that, if it had stayed in place, the concussion alone would have pulped the bodies of its occupants.

  The third bomb, however, was murderous. Half a dozen partisans had found a dry creek bed running through the woods. The men had figured the bed provided a natural defilade that could protect them from flying bomb fragments, debris, and the bomb blast itself. Unless, of course, the bomb landed in the creek bed. Six lives were snuffed out in a heartbeat, the partisans blown to jellied bits and scattered across the forest floor by the blast.

  After the first bombing run, the Stukas broke formation and circled around. Rather than dropping bombs, this time each of them raked the forest below with their 7.92mm machine guns, tearing apart trees and sending a flurry of leaves and branches falling to the ground. Two unlucky partisans were killed by the dive bombers, caught by streams of gunfire as they sprinted from one patch of cover to another in a bl
ind panic, having never been under air attack before.

  Although the Stuka pilots couldn’t see below the forest canopy, the rolling cloud of black smoke that marked the deaths of the two transports let them know they’d found their targets, and like vicious carrion birds, they circled the smoke cloud, swooping in to riddle the forest with bullets or drop one of their smaller, wing-mounted bombs.

  Whether they killed all the partisans or not, the pilots didn’t really care. This was the first chance any of them had been given to kill Frenchmen or the English in almost a year, and they wanted to simply enjoy the mission. Each pilot mentally pictured their bombs throwing up great plumes of earth, French and English bodies torn limb from limb, bloody pieces cartwheeling through the air. When they swept the forest with their machine guns, the pilots imagined frantic figures racing through the trees like hares, desperately searching for cover and finding only death, as German bullets punched through their backs and ended their lives. The pilots enjoyed every moment of their private daydreams, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing those helpless targets down below could do to stop them.

  In moments, however, they would be proven terribly, foolishly wrong.

  The subject of using air support for Commando operations had been a long debated topic amongst the British High Command. Some felt the raids would be too quick to require air support, and sent against targets that would be defensively soft enough that speed and skill would carry the day. Others were worried about the risk of turning any Commando operation into an expensive side-show for the air battle that would soon brew up above any raid using air assets for support.

  To support Arrowhead, a mission involving just twelve men attacking a target of no real, critical military value, official air support was out of the question. However, Lord Pembroke petitioned the RAF and asked for six volunteer pilots who would be willing to fly two rotating flights of three Spitfires over the course of April 15th, who may be called on at any moment while in the air to race across the Channel at full throttle and engage German forces, either ground targets or aircraft. RAF command grudgingly consented to the petition, but cautioned Pembroke that six pilots might not step forward for the duty.