Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 2

  Turning his thoughts back to the present, Lynch untied the kerchief from his face and shook away the fine dust and sand that’d begun caking the cloth around his nose and mouth. Reaching down, Lynch picked up a canteen, twisted off the cap, and allowed himself three generous swallows, the hot, metallic-tasting water still perfectly refreshing. Letting out a sigh, Lynch twisted back and forth to loosen his back after the beating it’d taken on the ride. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a slight hazing to a point on the northern horizon.

  Lynch froze. Although he’d only been in North Africa for less than three weeks, he already knew what he was looking at: vehicles kicking up a cloud of dust as they crossed the desert.

  “Vehicles approaching from the north!” Lynch shouted.

  The banter among the men was silenced immediately, as every neck craned to look, and hands fumbled at the straps of field glasses, trying to get lenses in front of eyes. A murmur of confirmation rippled through the men.

  Behind Lynch, Lawless stood with his field glasses glued to his eyes. He let out a grunt. “Armour, at least a dozen, maybe more. Too far away to say for certain.”

  Two trucks away, Sergeant Highsmith of the Desert Group bellowed at the top of his lungs. “Alright lads, this is no exercise! Nichols, get your truck back to the oasis and tell Captain Clarke we’ve got company. The rest of you lot, we’re going to close and perform recce. Mount up! ‘Ere we go!”

  “Bloody hell!” Lawless swore. “Tommy, change that ammo belt as fast as you can. We might need a full load!” And with that, Lawless dropped back into his seat and began to reload his Lewis gun.

  Lynch snapped open the Vickers’ top cover, removed the cloth belt, dropped it back into the ammunition can, then unhooked the can from the mount and fitted a full can in position. Within a few seconds, he had the Vickers charged again with a full two hundred and fifty rounds.

  “Gunner loaded!” he shouted.

  Higgins dropped the Chevrolet back into gear, and he brought the truck around, pointing north. The four vehicles spread out into a wide skirmish line, Lynch’s truck holding the end of the left flank. They accelerated quickly, knowing that against enemy armour, speed was their best - and only - defence. Lynch realized too late his kerchief was hanging around his neck, and he managed to awkwardly fit it over his nose with one hand, the other hanging onto the Vickers for dear life. Higgins was trying his best to avoid the worst of the bumps along the way, but he wasn’t as experienced a driver as some of the other Desert Group men, and the distraction of possible violent action in the near future was making the ride exceptionally rough. Lynch bent his knees and tried not to fight against the motion of the truck.

  Lawless raised his field glasses again. “They’re tanks all right. Sixteen of the great blighters, and they’re moving fast!”

  “Ours or theirs?” Lynch shouted.

  Lawless adjusted the focus and stared for a moment. “Ours, I think. Looks to be Crusaders.”

  Lynch relaxed a bit. The Crusader was a British “cruiser” tank, lightly armoured and built for speed and maneuverability. While the Matilda tanks he’d seen in action during the Battle of Arras in May of 1940 were “infantry” tanks - slow and heavily armoured to fight the enemy in support of infantry engagements - the cruisers were built for sweeping cavalry-style manoeuvres out in the open battlefield. Although he wasn’t schooled in the particulars of armoured warfare, Lynch imagined the North African desert provided the perfect field of battle for the Eighth Army’s cruiser tank squadrons.

  The Crusaders were moving at a brisk pace, and with the Chevrolet’s high speed, within a few minutes the two groups were coming to a stop a few yards apart from each other. Lynch saw the officer in the lead tank’s command cupola wore a major’s insignia, and the truck crews saluted the officer as he lifted dusty goggles from his face.

  “I say, quite dashing of you lads!” the major exclaimed, slapping the steel plate of his Crusader’s turret. “Just the sort of fighting spirit I was hoping to find!”

  “Sir?” Sergeant Highsmith asked, puzzled.

  “Are you in command, Sergeant?” the major asked.

  “Of these lads here, yes sir. Captain Clarke is our commanding officer, sir.”

  The major nodded. “Excellent, then we’re right where we should be. Perkins! We’re wasting daylight!” the major shouted down into the belly of his tank. The Crusader lurched forward, followed by the squadron’s fifteen other tanks.

  As the squadron passed through the line of Desert Group trucks and headed south, the major turned and shouted at Highsmith. “Come along now, Sergeant! We’ve got a war to win!”

  Lynch looked down at Lawless and Higgins. The three men were speechless for a moment.

  “I don’t know who that was or what he bloody well meant,” Lawless finally said, “but it can’t be good.”

  “Aye,” Lynch replied, “you can be sure of that, now.”

  Higgins put their truck into gear, and along with Sergeant Highsmith and the other two trucks, followed the mystery major and his squadron of Crusaders.

  Chapter Two

  Bardia, Libya

  November 13th, 1100 Hours

  Hauptmann Karl Steiner walked through the halls of a former administrative building, passing by Italian and German officers and enlisted men as they went about their business. Steiner exhibited a purposeful stride, his pace unusually quick, his expression determined. Although of only middling rank among the officers moving through the halls, even those senior to Steiner who saw him approach made subtle adjustments to their movements in order to give him a wide berth.

  Tall and wiry, with sun-bleached, sandy brown hair and a pleasant, handsome face, Steiner did not look at first glance to be particularly menacing. There was, however, something in Steiner’s eyes, a predatory gleam that marked him as a fighting man of no small degree of experience, as did the well-worn look of the leather pistol holster on his belt, and the battered appearance of the desert combat boots on his feet. There was, too, the Brandenburg regimental insignia upon his right uniform cuff, and although not every staff officer who saw it recognized the unit, those who did gave Steiner a look of respect, no matter the disparity in rank.

  As he continued along his journey, Steiner noticed with no conscious effort the signs of recent battle throughout the building. Bardia had been taken from the Italians by an Australian division back in January, only for the captors to be driven out months later by the Germans. Here and there Steiner saw bullet-scarred stone, plaster, and wood, broken glass that hadn’t been replaced yet, and on more than one occasion, the faint but unmistakable stain of old blood on the walls or stone floor, the stains scrubbed repeatedly, but far too tenacious to be defeated by anything save time. Steiner idly wondered how often Bardia would change hands before the war was over.

  Finally, Steiner reached the wooden door leading to his destination. A sentry stood guard outside the door, a machine pistol in his hands, but the sentry recognized Steiner and was expecting him. Without a word of greeting, the sentry saluted Steiner and opened the door; Steiner saluted in return as he passed through the doorway.

  The office inside was plain and functional. A swastika hung on one wall, a framed photograph of der Führer on another. A third wall boasted a large map of Libya and Egypt, with dozens of push pins sporting tiny coloured flags covering its surface, along with small scraps of paper bearing notes of units, dates, and dispositions.

  In the middle of the room a plain wooden desk of immense size dominated the space. Steiner measured its proportions with a critical eye and decided the desk had to have been assembled in the room, because there was no way it had fit through either the door or the window. The desk was covered in rolled maps, stacks of reports, a tray with a half-consumed meal, and countless other bits and pieces of administrative debris. Taking it in, Steiner found himself hoping he was never promoted away from the field, because he’d eat a bullet before tackling that much paperwork.

  The man who
se responsibility it was to tackle the paperwork sat behind the desk. Herr Oberst Hirsch was a small, tidy man with thinning light brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and narrow, severe features. Hirsch was one of the staff officers in charge of administering the operations for Division z.b.V Afrika, an amalgamation of several infantry units smashed together under one divisional banner and attached to the Afrika Korps. Steiner’s Brandenburger company was part of Sonderverband - or “Special Formation” - 288, one of the many units that made up this patchwork division. Right now, 288 was in Greece on manoeuvres, sent there while Steiner and his squad were in the deep desert. Now that his command had been wiped out, and he was left with no more than a half-squad of men, Steiner imagined Hirsch had summoned him here to, at best, inform Steiner that he was joining the rest of his company on the other side of the Mediterranean.

  At worst, Hirsch was going to verbally rip Steiner apart before having him dragged behind the building and shot for dereliction of duty and incompetence in command.

  Hirsch returned Steiner’s formal salute and motioned for him to stand at ease. Hirsch held his hands in front of him, resting his elbows on the table, fingers steepled in front of his chin. He looked like an old schoolmaster of Steiner’s, who’d ponder at some length before berating the students under his charge. Steiner waited for the first scathing comments.

  “Hauptmann, I’m going to send you and your men back into the deep desert,” Hirsch said.

  Steiner blinked. “Herr Oberst?”

  Hirsch gestured to a letter on his desk. “The Italians are rather distressed at learning we lost a company of their elite infantry and a half-dozen armoured cars. However, we are more concerned with the determination the British showed in finding and eliminating your command in a region of desert nowhere near the active front lines.”

  Steiner shifted his feet. “Well, sir, we did cause no small amount of trouble to their supply convoys and reconnaissance elements.”

  Hirsch let out a snort. “So they bring in some of their elite raiding infantry - these Kommandos - and risk their precious Desert Group spies to launch a night assault? The last we knew, this raiding unit was in Scotland! You do not fly dozens of men and their equipment such a distance because some supplies are being stolen.”

  Hirsch’s information was news to Steiner, who’d always assumed the Commandos he’d encountered were in North Africa for the same reason he was - unconventional operations. That they’d been brought here just to deal with him and his command stroked his ego no small amount, despite the fact he’d lost against them. Every field commander fantasizes about the enemy sending the very best they had to offer, even though the reality was you always hoped the enemy facing you across the battlefield was made up of cowards and commanded by idiots.

  “Sir, if that is the case,” Steiner said, “they must have some other goal in mind.”

  Hirsch nodded. “General Sümmermann has been in discussion with the other division commanders, and the general consensus is, the British are going to launch a major offensive sometime before the end of the year. The questions are where and when. Some feel the British will drive hard for us here at Bardia and seek to shatter the Afrika Korps as quickly as possible, while others think there will be a sweeping manoeuvre through the desert to the south, intending to come up to the West of us and break through to Tobruk, where we’ve got the Australians trapped.”

  Steiner nodded. His command had been part of Operation Sommernachtstraum back in September, a raiding and reconnaissance mission to find and disrupt the buildup of British forces the Germans knew must be taking place. Unfortunately, there had been little evidence of buildup, and the general consensus at the time was that the British weren’t anywhere near ready for such an offensive; if one was to come, it wouldn’t be until the end of the year.

  Hirsch continued. “Removing your command from its position has blinded us to much of their movements in that area. It is just what we would do, were we to launch an attack from the south and bypass all the defending forces along the northern border between Libya and Egypt. Rommel himself is concerned by any threat that might bring the enemy to Tobruk before we’ve reduced the defences there and taken the port.”

  “The generals believe an attack from the south is imminent?” Steiner asked.

  Hirsch spread his hands in a prayerful gesture. “Such a possibility cannot be dismissed, Hauptmann. And so, this is where you enter the picture.”

  Steiner stood a little straighter. “What are my orders, Herr Oberst?”

  Hirsch moved some papers around on his desk. “You’re going to be assigned temporary command of a partial armoured car squadron from 33 Reconnaissance Battalion. You’ll take this unit south and link up with a unit of panzers from the 15th Division on manoeuvres, where you’ll serve under their commanding officer. From there, you’ll continue on and make contact with several small depots and installations, appraise their defences and states of readiness, and prepare them for the possibility of a British offensive.”

  “Herr Oberst,” Steiner said guardedly, “are we tasked with stopping the British?”

  Hirsch chuckled. “No, no, your job is to act as the tripwire, to alert us to any attack from the south. If you encounter hostile British forces, you are to first determine strength and disposition, then break contact and report.”

  “And then, sir?” Steiner asked.

  “And then,” Hirsch smiled, “you will transform from tripwire to caltrop. Harass and delay the British as much as possible during their advance until reinforcements arrive. Any questions?”

  Steiner snapped to attention and saluted. “Nein, Herr Oberst.”

  Hirsch returned Steiner’s salute. “Then carry on, Hauptmann, and good hunting.”

  Steiner smiled. “Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”

  Chapter Three

  Siwa Oasis, Egypt

  November 14th, 0700 Hours

  Lynch tried once again to find a comfortable position in the back seat of the Chevrolet truck, then twisted around and looked behind him, squinting into the morning sun rising over Siwa Oasis. The Desert Group base had been his home for a week and a half, but now they were on the move again, departing at first light for the Libyan border. Lynch’s Chevrolet was near the head of a formation of several dozen vehicles and well over a hundred men.

  The armoured officer encountered the previous morning was Major John Meade, of the 2nd Royal Gloucestershire Hussars. The Hussars were part of the 22nd Armoured Brigade, now part of the 7th Armoured Division, shipped to North Africa in October in preparation for the upcoming British offensive, Operation Crusader. Although Lynch and the rest of the men occupying Siwa had suspected they’d be back in the field again soon, Meade’s arrival confirmed everyone’s suspicions; Crusader was fast approaching, and they were going to be at the forefront of the action.

  Last night, the officers had called all the men together and explained Meade’s presence. The major was going to take command of the Commandos, the armoured cars under Captain Moody, and the Desert Group patrol under Captain Clarke. These three commands would supplement the major’s own Sabre squadron of sixteen Crusader tanks, accompanied by a half-dozen Bedfords carrying petrol, parts, and other consumables. Altogether, these combined elements - nicknamed “Meadeforce” - were to strike out in a north-westerly bearing, cross the Libyan border, and cause as much havoc as possible over the next 72 hours, in the hopes of distracting the Axis forces and diverting some of their manpower away from Operation Crusader’s attack corridor.

  While at face value it might seem like Lynch and his mates were being left out of the big show, he knew these hit-and-run missions were just the sorts of operations the Commando troops were trained for, and compared to their attack against the Bersaglieri, the men of Meadeforce were even more well-equipped. Of the ten Chevrolet trucks, four were carrying heavy weapons: the portee-mounted 37mm anti-tank gun they’d used in the ambush against the Autoblindas and the three-inch mortar they’d used to shell the enemy outpost dur
ing the night assault, as well as a captured 20mm Breda and the 28mm “squeeze-bore” anti-tank gun. In addition, each of the trucks not carrying a heavy weapon mounted two machine guns, and carried in its kit one of the massive Boys anti-tank rifles. Although the Boys was big and heavy and kicked like a mule, its .55 calibre armour-piercing bullets were better than nothing against armoured cars or light tanks.

  The men were likewise very well-armed. A great number of enemy weapons were captured after the battle at the outpost, and both Commandos and the LRDG men supplemented their personal arms with German or Italian weapons. Lieutenant Price had given one of the other Commandos his Thompson submachine gun, and instead was carrying an Italian-made Beretta Modelo 38 machine pistol. Several other men had acquired Berettas or German-made machine pistols, along with enemy sidearms, grenades, and even several light machine guns. The Commandos - especially those few of Lynch’s squad who’d made it out of Calais the previous summer - knew the importance of pilfering enemy arms whenever possible, and from the actions of the Desert Group men, they were no strangers to plundering, either. Resources were simply too tight out in the deep desert to not take advantage of every opportunity to increase one’s resources.

  In fact, that philosophy went so far as to include enemy armoured vehicles. While they’d captured one Autoblinda before taking the enemy outpost, two more of the Italian armoured cars were salvaged after the battle, and even the remaining dead vehicles were towed back to Siwa. Captain Moody now commanded a makeshift squadron of three Autoblindas and three Morris armoured cars. The British cars were a far cry from the more formidable Italian vehicles, the latter equipped with 20mm autocannons, but beggars such as they were, Moody and his men couldn’t complain.

  In contrast, Meade and his Sabre squadron were almost immaculate. While no vehicle can cross a significant expanse of North African desert without accumulating a coat of fine sand and dust, otherwise the men and machines looked to be in pristine condition. Their Crusader tanks bore no evidence of battle-damage, and experienced eyes noticed few of the “field modifications” soldiers always made to their vehicles and kit to better suit their role and the environment. It was quickly opined by most of the Commandos and Desert Group men that Meade’s Hussars had never, in fact, seen combat.