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

Although he’d always been fit while serving in the Royal Irish Fusiliers, since joining the Commandos Lynch had found himself pushed to the peak of his physical abilities. Commando training emphasized both the strength needed to carry heavy weapons and equipment, as well as the endurance necessary to bear that load over long, grueling marches, often cross-country, or while climbing up a cliff-face after being dunked in frigid ocean waters. Some of the men were slender and wiry like Price or Rhys Bowen, while others were barrel-chested brutes like Harry Nelson or Sergeant McTeague. But most of the men were like Lynch; a little above average height, broad-shouldered with a narrow waist and muscular limbs. It was the build of a natural warrior, a physicality that lent itself to the perfect combination of strength, speed, and endurance. It gave men such as Lynch the likeness of mountain wolves – strong, swift-moving predators ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

  That moment had come during his first mission under Price’s command three months ago, when Lynch crossed the Channel with ten other men and battled a Wehrmacht company in and around the small coastal town of Merlimont. It was his first taste of combat since joining 3 Commando, and his first battle since the long, ignominious retreat through France, up to the port of Dunkirk. Being able to take the fight to the Germans, to make a contribution to the war effort, no matter how small, had made Lynch proud to be part of the “lone light in the dark” standing against the Nazi menace.

  However, the war was also a constant reminder of how that “lone light” - the British Empire - had stamped out Ireland’s attempts to be free around the time of his birth. His father, a veteran of the Great War, had been killed during the rebellion, his mother arrested. He and his siblings had been split up and sent to various orphanages, and Lynch had become a ward of the state until his majority. Looking for a way to channel his tendency towards rowdiness and violence into something that wouldn’t get him arrested, he joined the RIF, anticipating a good fight as the world watched and waited for the Third Reich to take its first goose-stepping strides down the road to war.

  Of course, in the last two years, his view of the world had changed considerably. War was a grim, dirty, merciless business, with one’s survival as much a matter of luck as skill. So far, Lynch had been very lucky, but he doubted that luck would hold forever.

  Such morose thoughts occupied his mind until the two Commandos made their way through the halls of the castle, and eventually Lynch found himself following Price into the castle library. Lynch hadn’t stepped foot in this room since he’d met Lord Pembroke back in April, and was somehow not surprised to see the white-haired statesman sitting exactly where he had been three months ago, sipping tea and eyeing a tray of sugar biscuits. Standing at ease along one side of the room were Sergeant McTeague and Corporal Bowen. The huge, bearlike Scottish sergeant towered over the blade-thin Welshman next to him by nearly a foot, and probably weighed twice as much as the lean marksman. Although you couldn’t find two more physically different men in the whole troop, Lynch couldn’t make up his mind as to who was the deadlier man. McTeague was an unstoppable juggernaut, possessing a primal, barbaric strength, while Bowen was as fast, agile, and silent as a hunting falcon diving after its prey. Both men glanced in Lynch’s direction, and Bowen gave him an almost indiscernible nod in greeting. Lynch realized he was simply glad both men were on his side.

  The commanding officer of 3 Commando, Colonel John Durnford-Slater, sat in a wingback chair next to Pembroke, delicately balancing a cup of tea on one knee as he engaged the elderly gentleman in small talk. Behind them, a man in a well-tailored suit stood in one corner of the room, slowly paging through a large, leather-bound book.

  As the two Commandos entered the room, the gentleman with the book turned and gave them an appraising look. Lynch saw he was of average height and build, trim and athletic, with sandy brown hair and brown eyes. He had a plain, fairly handsome face, with a neutral expression that betrayed little of his background or disposition. Lynch noted that the man carried himself well, and seemed to move with a fluid dexterity. If he had to guess, the fellow had a gentleman’s education, but fancied quite a bit of sport in his youth. Lynch would put him somewhere in his late 30’s, but such fellows kept themselves young through exercise and tended to look more boyish than they were.

  Lynch’s thoughts were interrupted by Durnford-Slater setting his teacup on the table in front of him and standing up. Lynch and Price gave the colonel smart salutes, which were amicably returned.

  “Ah, Lieutenant, glad you could find the corporal on such short notice. Out on the field, Lynch?” Durnford-Slater asked.

  Lynch nodded. “Aye sir, on the pistol range, sir. Familiarizing myself with the new Yank sidearms, I was.”

  “And what do you think?” the colonel asked him.

  “An excellent bit of kit, sir. Just the thing for pipping Jerries up close and personal like, sir.”

  The colonel nodded and gave Lynch a polite smile. “Lord Pembroke, you remember the corporal, I imagine?”

  Pembroke looked up from the rim of his teacup. “Ah, yes John, I do. The fellow who wanted us to give him ‘a good scrap’. Well boy, did you find the results to your liking?”

  Lynch didn’t detect any sarcasm in Pembroke’s tone. “Aye, my lord, thank you. It was a rough bit of business, to be sure, but we gave the Huns a bloody nose, so we did.”

  Pembroke gave him a searching look. “And what would you say if I was to send you over again?”

  Lynch put an extra bit of steel in his spine. “I would be asking when the lorries depart, sir.”

  Pembroke let out a sharp bark of a laugh and slapped his knee. “I knew it John! Quite the eager crop of lads you have here. Good show, man, good show!’

  The colonel smiled patiently and nodded. He then looked to Price, who gave a small inclination of his head. Durnford-Slater ran his eyes across McTeague and Bowen, who continued to stand at ease, clearly having been subjected to Pembroke’s banter before Price and Lynch arrived.

  “Alright lads, then it’s settled,” the colonel spoke at last. “You’re going back into northern France, you and the rest of your squad. You’ve all had time to bring the new fellows up to speed and learn to work as a team, and the sergeant here has recovered from his wounds, as well as your chap Nelson.”

  From the corner of his eye, Lynch could see Price standing up so straight, he was practically toppling over, and both McTeague and Bowen seemed pleased. They had all speculated on whether or not they would take on another mission like the Merlimont raid, but they’d lost three good men and two others wounded. McTeague had suffered a score of minor shrapnel wounds, and Nelson had taken four nine-millimetre bullets, although thankfully they’d all been superficial injuries. Five casualties out of twelve men was shockingly high, but of course no one joined a Commando troop to avoid danger, and Lynch knew they’d all been quite lucky. If it hadn’t been for some swift thinking and the assistance of the partisans, they very likely would have been captured or killed in their first battle at the Souliere’s farm.

  Durnford-Slater noticed their reaction and smiled. “I’m glad you all seem to approve, but this is not a raid; it’s a rescue mission.”

  The Commandos shot each other puzzled looks. Price was the only one to speak up. “Sir? Has another Commando unit run into a spot of trouble?”

  “You’re not going to be rescuing any of our boys,” the colonel replied. “You’re going over to help the Frogs. The partisans you fought with...well...most of them are dead. Those few who survived, we’ve made the decision to extract them, bring them back to Blighty, train them, and prepare them for the day when they can return home to continue the fight.”

  Lynch felt his stomach lurch. He cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon sir, but do we know who survived?”

  Durnford-Slater shook his head. “Sorry, Corporal. All we know is that there were a few survivors who managed to contact us via the wireless. Seems they were hunted down by a company of SS, and wiped out almost to a m
an. There’s not enough of them left to remain effective, so we’re going to nab the survivors before those jack-booted knaves find them and finish their grim business.”

  “So it’s back to Merlimont, sir?” Price asked.

  The colonel shook his head. “They’ve been operating further up the coast, just south of Calais. It’ll be damn tricky getting you lads on the beach, but I’m sure it can be done. Your mission will be to make contact with whoever’s left, determine a good extraction point and time, then arrange the details for your departure over the wireless. Once that’s done, you’ll find a dark place to stay out of sight until our Navy lads can fetch you home again.”

  It all seemed simple enough, Lynch thought. Of course, so did Merlimont, and that became anything but simple. As the thought crossed his mind, Lynch couldn’t help but wonder if Marie, the young French girl he’d rescued, had survived the attack by the SS. He knew she was stronger and more capable than she first appeared, and he remembered the look in her eyes as she shot that German captain.

  “Now lads,” Pembroke said, “I have been speaking to General de Gaulle. Pleasant enough fellow, for a Frenchman. Has the backbone for a good fight, unlike that windy chap Pétain. Anyhow, the general has asked me to look after these patriots, as he calls them, and make sure they join him here in England to fight another day.

  “What’s more,” he continued, “my old chum Winnie - that would be Prime Minister Churchill to you lads - wants to keep de Gaulle fat and happy, so to speak, in the hopes that he can win over support from the French people. The poor fellow has been declared a traitor to his country by the Vichy government. Quite intolerable, I must say. Wouldn’t you agree, John?”

  “Yes, Lord Pembroke,” the colonel replied. “Quite intolerable.”

  Pembroke nodded. “Can’t believe the Frogs would condemn a fellow for having the spine to stand up to that vegetarian maniac. Can you believe that, John? Fellow won’t even have a bit of kidney pie, I’d warrant. Can’t trust a man who doesn’t enjoy a bit of good kidney pie on his plate now and then.”

  “Adolf Hitler is indeed a most peculiar fellow, Lord Pembroke,” the colonel agreed.

  “And now he’s gone and taken his mob East, going to see if he can’t accomplish what Bonaparte and the Kaiser never could, eh? Thinks he’s going to go give the Commies a swift kick in the backside? He’s mad, John! Gone completely starkers, I tell you!”

  Durnford-Slater inclined his head. “Let us hope Stalin can get his act together soon, Lord Pembroke. The Heer has been doing quite well so far. At this rate, they’ll be knocking on the door of the Kremlin before the year is over.”

  Before Lord Pembroke had a chance to reply, the colonel glanced over his shoulder at the man standing in the back of the room. Lynch noticed the fellow hadn’t looked up from the book in his hand the entire conversation.

  “Lord Pembroke, perhaps we should discuss...?” He tilted his head towards the man.

  “Ah, yes, quite right you are John, quite right,” Pembroke nodded. “Mister Smythe, if you would be so good as to introduce yourself to the lads.”

  The man in the suit closed and shelved the book he was reading in one smooth motion, then turned and took a few steps closer, until he stood next to Pembroke’s chair. He gave the Commandos a friendly nod and smile.

  “Hello chaps. John Robert Smythe. I’ve been asked to cross the channel with you and stay behind, spend a little time enjoying the French countryside.”

  Lynch saw confusion on the faces of the other men. Price was the first to speak. “Pardon me, sir,” he said to the colonel. “But are we to ferry across a civilian?”

  Durnford-Slater nodded. “Mister Smythe is a… professional observer. He will stay behind in France and gather intelligence for the war effort.”

  “You mean he’s a spy?” Lynch asked the colonel. “Sorry Smythe, don’t mean anything by it now. Just wanted to be clear, sir.”

  Lord Pembroke gestured to Smythe, as if allowing the man to answer. Smythe gave Lynch an embarrassed smile.

  “Well, old bean, I suppose that’s one way to put it. I speak a good bit of French and German, and I’ve got a knack for blending in with the local colour. Hopefully I’ll find myself a - as the colonel put it - a dark place to stay out of sight, and I’ll keep an eye on Jerry while you good fellows make ready to give the Huns a right solid punch in the gob.”

  The colonel nodded at Smythe’s explanation, and turned back to the rest of his men. “Well Price, we’ll work out the details later, but there you have it, the meat of the matter. Any questions?”

  Price looked at each of his men, then back at Pembroke and Smythe, before he gave Durnford-Slater a textbook salute.

  “Sir, as Corporal Lynch said earlier, when do the lorries depart?”

  Chapter 3

  Two Kilometres North Of Wissant, France

  July 11th, 0200 Hours

  The inflatable rubber raft made a soft hissing sound as Lynch helped drag the craft up onto the sandy beach. There was almost no moonlight, and they dared not use their torches, so the landing had been done under conditions of near-total darkness. The Commandos had to rely purely on the faintest gleam of the white sandy beach and the phosphorescence of the surf to measure their approach to shore. Thankfully there were no strong winds, dangerous rocks or other hazards awaiting them.

  As soon as the rafts were out of the water, Lynch and the two other men in his boat party formed up in a triangular pattern, each man covering a segment of the shore. Lynch held his Thompson at the ready, bolt locked back and safety off. He remembered the fear of ambush during the first landing near Merlimont months ago. Tonight, fear gnawed at Lynch’s belly again, his mind racing at the thought of the remaining partisans captured, SS machine gun teams lying in wait for the Commandos just beyond the beach.

  “Bloody hell it’s dark. Where’s the Frogs, eh?”

  It was one of the new men, a fellow named Pritchard. A friendly fellow, Pritchard had been an apprentice fitter before the war. He appeared unusually young, with a boy’s round face and eyes that always seemed to be registering surprise. But Pritchard’s problem was being too familiar; he never shut up, and the more nervous Pritchard became, the more he tended towards idle banter.

  “Pritchard, you’ll be shuttin’ your gob now, before Jerry hears you in Berlin,” Lynch growled at him.

  “Sorry, Corporal, I’ll be quiet,” Pritchard replied.

  Lynch sighed, but he agreed with Pritchard’s sentiments. According to surveillance photos he’d studied while the squad flew south from an airfield near Largs, this section of French coastline was all low scrubland rising slowly from the surf, with plenty of bogs and ponds leading gradually into farmland. That meant during daylight hours, movement would be extremely limited, with no sizable wilderness to hide them from view. It was critical the French found them and moved them to safety before the sun came up a few hours from now.

  Suddenly, off to his right, Lynch saw the flash of a red lens, and he turned to his left and whispered into the darkness. “Lieutenant, signal from the right flank.”

  A moment later, Price flashed a return signal with his own torch. Seconds passed, each man crouching lower in the darkness, waiting for the muzzle flashes.

  Instead, a voice called from the darkness. “Teapot!”

  “Milk Bottle!” Price replied, giving the counter-phrase.

  There was the sound of movement, quiet footsteps approaching in the dark. Lynch stood up, his submachine gun still at the ready. He whispered, “Chenot, is that you now?”

  Lynch could barely make out the silhouette of a man, but for a moment he caught the gleam of moonlight on the man’s teeth as the Frenchman grinned.

  “Oui. It is good to see you again, Corporal Lynch.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Well, who be with you?” Lynch asked.

  Chenot turned and made three clicking noises with his tongue. In a moment, a smaller, more slender silhouette had joined them. Lyn
ch recognized the profile of Marie, the young woman they’d rescued during the Merlimont mission.

  “Monsieur Lynch, thank you for coming to France once again.”

  Lynch’s throat went dry for a moment, before he cleared it and spoke. “No trouble at all now, Miss. We always enjoy a wee holiday along the coast, so we do.”

  The crunch of sand underfoot signalled the arrival of Price and McTeague. The lieutenant shook the hands of the two partisans. “At your service as always, Mister Chenot, Miss Coupé. Now, let’s get off this beach and under cover, shall we?”

  Chenot nodded. “We have a long walk ahead of us, Monsieur. Some ten kilometres. You will want to bury your rafts and any unwanted equipment, no?”

  McTeague let out a grunt. “Ten kilometres? That’s...six miles. An easy hike for the lads, but we’ll nae make it before sunrise if we’re walkin’ cross-country and keeping silent.”

  Chenot shook his head. “We know of peasant trails, paths the Boche have not found. It will not take as long as you think, perhaps three hours.”

  “Just a minute,” Price interrupted. “This is a rescue mission, sir. We’re to gather up your remaining partisans and arrange for transport as quickly as possible. Just where are we going that’s so far from here?”

  Chenot smiled. “We’re going to the one place the Germans have yet to look. We are going underground.”

  The trip lasted almost three hours. The Commandos broke down their rafts and buried them under some scrub brush well off the beach, deep enough that they wouldn’t be exposed if a storm hit in the next couple of days. The Commandos only brought with them their weapons and packs, carrying enough food and other necessities for a couple days’ worth of operations, but little more.

  The journey was taken in near-total silence. Chenot led the way, with Marie trailing the Commando squad and ensuring they weren’t being followed. Lynch could tell they were moving in a mostly south-southeastern direction, directly inland from where they’d landed. The scrub and bogland of the coast soon turned into farmland, and they found themselves walking along the edges of fields, the only sounds their labored breathing, the swish of their boots through the grass, and the occasional clink of metal against metal. The terrain was easy enough to cross, but the partisans ushered them with an abundance of caution, wary for the slightest noise that might announce a German ambush.