Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 4

  Once all the rafts were lowered and manned, one of the Royal Marines used a red-lensed signal lantern, flashing a single momentary light towards the coast. Although they were well over a mile offshore, anyone looking for their signal should have been able to spot the flash. Unfortunately, it also meant that a keen-eyed shore defense gunner might have spotted it as well. Lynch involuntarily tensed his body, waiting for the probing arcs of tracer fire to come pouring in from shore emplacements, but the only response was a quick double flash of red light, followed by a single flash, and three more flashes.

  “Two-one-three, that’s the signal,” Price whispered from his raft. “Paddle away, boys, and everyone look sharp. A correct signal doesn’t mean it’s not a ruse.”

  Cor, no need to remind us! Lynch thought to himself. Every man in the squad was silently dreading an uneventful paddle to shore, only to be ripped apart by hidden machine guns or surrounded and captured by Germans. Lynch was horrified by the thought of capture and interrogation, the humiliation of enduring it, the frustration he would feel at being cut out of the war and still knowing it was going on outside, seething behind bars like a hornet caught in a glass jar.

  He knew he was far from alone in this feeling. During the lorry ride to the coast that afternoon, Rhys Bowen had leaned in close so the rest couldn’t overhear him and whispered in Lynch’s ear.

  “A sniper never fares well in the hands of the enemy,” Bowen had said.

  Lynch had looked at him quizzically.

  “If it looks like we’ll not make it away from Jerry, don’t let them take me alive, if I’m too badly hurt to do it meself,” Bowen had explained.

  Lynch had shaken his head. “You’re daft. I’m not shooting you!”

  Bowen then tapped the little Colt automatic in Lynch’s jacket. He had kept it tucked out of sight most of the time, but the keen eyes of the Welsh sniper had missed nothing.

  “Use this little blighter and put a bullet in me head or heart. The Jerries will torture me if they catch me. They’ll cut off me fingers, put pokers in me eyes. I don’t want to go that way, you hear me Tommy?”

  Lynch had looked Bowen straight in the sniper’s anxious blue eyes. The man was deadly serious, he realized. Lynch had extended his hand, and Bowen shook it.

  “Giorraionn beirt bothar.” Two shorten the road, Lynch had said.

  Now, lying against the bow of a tiny rubber raft floating in the cold waters of the English Channel, he couldn’t help but think that it might come to him honoring his vow to the Welshman. Twelve men, even as well-equipped and highly trained as these, wouldn’t stand a chance against a larger, prepared force of Germans. Surprise and shock were their greatest allies, and if the Germans were waiting for them, all of that was lost.

  Lynch managed to put such bleak thoughts mostly from his mind, and focused his attention towards the approaching shoreline. His Thompson was braced against the rubber bow of the raft, the bolt drawn and ready, safety off. His finger was outside the trigger guard, but he was ready to empty the submachine gun towards the beach the moment they were discovered by the enemy.

  After perhaps an hour of slow, steady paddling, the rafts finally approached the shoreline. If there was a time for them to be attacked, it would be now, while they floundered in the surf. At a hissed command from Price, the two paddlers from each raft rolled over the sides, slipping into the frigid, waist-high surf, and pulled the rafts ashore while the third man covered the beach with his weapon. Once the raft was beached, the two men out of the raft took up covering positions on the beach while the third climbed out and dragged the raft further up onto shore. Once their rafts were secured, all twelve men knelt in the sand, silent in the dark, waiting with their weapons trained on the treeline a dozen yards away.

  “Train car!” whispered a voice from the trees.

  “Railway!” Price whispered back, giving the counter-password.

  A solitary figure emerged from the gloom, resolving itself into a young man, no older than Lynch, dressed in civilian clothes and carrying a rifle. He was lean and ragged, his coat and trousers showing considerable wear, with a cap pulled down low over his eyes. Lynch noted the rifle was a MAS-36, standard issue for the French army, and the young man had a cartridge bandolier looped across his chest and a German Stielhandgranate - a “potato masher” stick grenade - shoved through his belt. The man moved and carried his weapon like he knew how to use it - he was probably a former French army infantryman, now turned guerrilla.

  “Who is in command?” The young man whispered. His English was heavily accented, but well-spoken.

  Price stood up and slung his Lanchester, offering the man a quick salute. “Lieutenant Price, of His Majesty’s Three Commando.”

  The young man returned Price’s salute. “René Chenot, formerly of the French Army, now a member of the French partisan forces. Welcome to France, Lieutenant.”

  “‘Welcome back’ would be more appropriate, Mister Chenot. I was here last year with the Expedition.”

  Chenot gave a contrite nod. “My apologies, Lieutenant. And now, let us get off the beach. The Boche do not patrol this area regularly at night, but we can never be sure, no?”

  The Commandos turned to their rafts, quickly deflating them by opening the air seals. Each man shouldered his pack and weapon, while some gathered up the partisan’s supplies and others rolled up and secured the deflated rafts. After a couple of minutes, the men followed Chenot into the treeline. Only Bowen stayed behind, taking the time to use a length of driftwood to sweep across the sand, obscuring their tracks. It might not completely hide their passing, but it was better than leaving it up to the whim of the surf to conceal their passage from a German morning patrol.

  The Commandos followed Chenot for a couple of minutes, keeping a slow but steady pace through the woods. There was little light to see, and although the men were used to moving through the wilderness in the dark - night maneuvers were some of their most frequent exercises - knowing they were in enemy territory added another layer of caution to their movements. Lynch was covering the squad from the rear, his Thompson up and at the ready. He heard someone move up behind him, and turning, he recognized Bowen’s silhouette.

  The Welshman came up close and muttered softly to Lynch. “We are being followed.”

  “Germans?” Lynch asked.

  “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. There’s movement to either side of us.”

  Just then, the formation stopped. Lynch could hear Price speak to Chenot.

  “Why are we stopping?” the lieutenant asked.

  “The rest of your welcome party is here, monsieur.”

  Figures emerged from the trees on both sides of the squad, and Lynch saw the outlines of Mauser rifles pointing towards them.

  6

  Merlimont-Plage, France

  April 15th, 1941

  Krieger could not decide. Knife? His bare hands? Some heavy object, perhaps his solid brass ashtray? There was always his pistol, the Browning nine-millimetre automatic. He had been able to acquire the superb weapon through contacts in the supplies and armaments division. After the Germans had taken Belgium, the Browning factory had begun turning out their excellent pistols for the Nazis rather than their enemies.

  But the pistol shot would make noise, and although he didn’t really care what the inn’s owners thought of him, he did fear that, heedless of the consequences, the cook might poison him or put ground glass in his food if he shot the girl in the inn. The old woman wouldn’t live out the day, Krieger knew, but that would be small comfort to him beyond the grave. No, he would have to do it quietly.

  The girl in question was balled up in the corner of the room, a torn bedsheet wrapped around her as if it could afford some kind of protection from his wrath. Krieger had begun to satiate his lusts with her body, when all of a sudden the girl had let out a shriek and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. One of the girl’s fingernails had cut a bloody groove over Krieger’s left eye, and for th
at insult, the worthless slut must die.

  She must have known such an insult would be repaid a thousand fold, but still, the girl had lashed out, and Krieger took this as a bad sign. More and more over the last few days, he had seen the population of Merlimont grow more sullen, more impertinent. It was nothing concrete, no outright sign of aggression that Krieger could take action against, but the mood within the town had taken a decidedly rebellious turn. There was, of course, an obvious reason behind this change; the partisans taking refuge in the countryside nearby were pouring poison in the ears of the townsfolk, telling them that the British were coming, that their German conquerors would soon be driven back into the east.

  Krieger had to find these partisans, find them and crush them. He had been informed of their leader, of his exploits in Calais, and how the little Frenchman had avoided every assassination attempt. But where others had failed, Krieger would succeed, for he had something that the others had lacked; he had a mole in the resistance camp. A week ago, a partisan had been scouting in town, nosing about where he shouldn’t have, and his suspicious activities earned him capture when the partisan tried to slip back out of town.

  After a lengthy interrogation, the man had broken down, admitted to working for the resistance, but he couldn’t provide them a pinpoint location for the Germans to strike against; the partisans moved about too frequently, never spending more than a single night in one location. But the man did know that the British were coming, and so Krieger had made the man a deal: if he could lead the Germans to the British once they landed, but before they took any action, the man’s life would be spared and he would be rewarded with money, and a relocation away from Merlimont, away from the locals who might sniff out his betrayal.

  The man had taken the bait, and now Krieger was waiting for his return, to inform them of the Commando’s hiding place so the Germans could eliminate them before their infernal campaign even started. The thrill of his impending victory had fueled his desires to an unimaginable degree, and Krieger had anticipated tonight’s “festivities” like never before. But now the little bitch had ruined it all, and Krieger would make her pay. He had finally decided to strangle her, because if he couldn’t earn some satisfaction by taking her sexually, he could at least enjoy the feeling of her life slipping away through his fingers.

  Krieger stepped towards his cowering victim, but a loud, familiar knock at his suite’s door stopped him. Bieber, he fumed.

  “Ja, what do you want?” Krieger asked.

  “Herr Hauptmann, we have news from the informant! The British are coming tonight. We know where they will be landing, and where they will be sheltered by the resistance.”

  Leutnant Bieber gingerly tried the doorknob to Krieger’s suite, and found it locked.

  “Hauptmann, what are your orders? The British are within our grasp tonight!”

  Kriger sighed. Bieber’s obsequious devotion to him was all too often a grating interruption of his more enjoyable activities. The fastest method to get rid of him, Krieger knew from experience, was to give him what he wanted and hope he went away, like throwing table scraps to a whining hound begging at the supper table.

  Pulling on his pants, Krieger went to the door and opened it to find Bieber standing at attention, snapping a textbook salute. The young man’s eyes shined with the excitement of action in the near future, flickering to Krieger’s bloody brow for only an instant before composure took over again. Krieger gave Bieber his best salute.

  “Leutnant Bieber, I am assigning you operational command of this mission. Take three squads of Panzerschützen and attack the Commandos at your first opportunity. Butcher these cowardly British soldiers, young Bieber, and bring their bodies back for display in the town square.”

  Krieger could have sworn Bieber had grown several centimetres taller upon hearing his orders. The boy was positively afire with military zeal. Bieber snapped his heels together and threw out his arm in a bold salute.

  “Jawohl, Hauptmann Krieger! I will not let you down! The Englanders will be nothing but corpses by nightfall!”

  “Yes, good, I’m sure you will do fine, Bieber.” Krieger started to shut the door. Looking back at the young girl sobbing in the corner, a sudden thought made him pause.

  “Bieber? Please send for two guards, immediately. As you can see, this young lady assaulted me without provocation, and I have just now surmised that she must have been a partisan assassin, sent to kill me. We will make an example of her in the morning.”

  Bieber gave Krieger a wicked grin and saluted once more. “My pleasure, Hauptman. Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler, Bieber. Go forth and make me proud.”

  7

  South Of Merlimont

  Believing the Germans had found them, Lynch whirled and brought around his Thompson, finger already seeking the trigger. He would take as many with him as he could before a bullet found his heart.

  But Rhys Bowen was faster. The sniper reached out and pushed down the muzzle of Lynch’s weapon before he could fire.

  “They aren’t Germans, you twitchy berk. Look at their clothes.”

  A closer look revealed the figures to be civilians, not uniformed Germans. Some carried Mausers, no doubt taken from German corpses. Others carried MAS-36s, and a few had older Berthier and Lebel rifles. All in all, Lynch counted close to a score of men and - surprisingly - a few women among the partisan fighters. Most wore dark or natural-colored clothes, well-worn breeches and jackets. Some were carrying satchels and packs, many had chests and waists crossed with cartridge belts.

  They were all lean, cautious figures, and they had moved quickly and quietly through the woods, surprising a squad of well-trained British Commandos. Lynch realized if they had been a German patrol, the entire squad would have been dead minutes ago.

  Lynch turned to Bowen. “Not a bad bit of fieldcraft for some farmer’s sons and daughters.”

  Bowen smiled. “The average rural peasant has been stalking game or finding lost livestock in these woods all their lives. Some of these men could make me look like a floundering ox.”

  From among the partisans, one man stepped forward and approached Lieutenant Price. He was perhaps five and a half feet tall, bearded, with small rimless spectacles and a brown beret. The man wore a rumpled tweed jacket, worn pants, and - Lynch was surprised to see - German combat boots. An MP-38 submachine gun hung from his shoulder, and a magazine pouch hung across his chest. Despite his modest stature, the man commanded obvious respect from the partisans, who moved out of his way with great deference.

  The man offered his hand to Price. “My apologies for alarming you, monsieur. My name is André Bouchard, and these are my men. We welcome your support against the cochons, the Nazi pigs who have invaded our homeland, raped our women, and killed our brothers, fathers, and sons.”

  Price took Bouchard’s hand and shook it heartily. “No need for apologies, my good man. You fellows have to be careful with Jerry tromping about in your garden patch. Just gave us all a bit of a fright. We thought the Germans had managed a clever bit of skullduggery.”

  Bouchard appeared somewhat bemused by Price’s words. “I am sorry, my English is not so good. Please, let us move on, a safe place awaits you a few miles from here.”

  Within a few moments, the partisans had distributed the supplies amongst themselves, relieving the Commandos of their additional burdens. The combined party, now almost three dozen strong, moved through the woods, and Lynch noticed they were following a faint path, possibly a game trail or one of the many secret routes by which the partisans traveled unseen by the German troops.

  After a while, Lynch found himself walking next to René Chenot. “So this Bouchard fellow is the leader of your partisan group?” he asked the Frenchman.

  Chenot nodded. “Monsieur Bouchard has been a leader in the resistance since the Germans took Calais. His wife and daughter were...assaulted and killed trying to resist German soldiers looting their shop. Bouchard used to be a school teacher, a ma
thématicien, but since the occupation he has been filled with a rage, a passion to kill Germans. He has executed at least twenty himself. He keeps a little pistol in his coat, and he machine-guns the Germans low, across their legs and backsides, so they are still alive when he gives them the coup de grace.”

  Lynch raises his eyebrows. “Sounds rather brutal to me.”

  Chenot gave Lynch a grim smile in the dark. “You do not know his nom de guerre? The men call him Le Boucher de Calais - The Butcher of Calais. There is a ten thousand franc bounty on his capture or death.”

  Soon, the group of Commandos and partisans emerged from the woods and into the field of a small farm. It reminded Lynch of the Buckley’s farm, and indeed, it could have been plucked out of the English countryside and deposited here, save for a few minor architectural differences between the two cultures. A pair of scouts quickly ran through the field, soon lost in the darkness.

  Bowen turned to Lynch. “Another night spent in a barn. Such is the noble life we lead, serving His Majesty.”

  Lynch shrugged. “Better than spending the night huddled under a tree out in the wild, I suppose.”

  “Silence, the lot of you!” growled McTeague.

  Minutes passed, but eventually the two scouts returned from the farmhouse, and a quiet conversation took place, Bouchard presiding. Finally the partisan leader turned to Lieutenant Price.

  “The farm is secure, with no sign of German patrols. You will stay here until tomorrow evening, at which time we will strike at the Boche together.”

  Price nodded and turned to the rest of his men. “Alright boys, move out.”