Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 8

  This second sentry, Lynch had purposely lured into the alleyway, hiding in the shadows while Chenot tugged on the string from around the corner of the building. He needed to get the man off the street and couldn’t risk simply letting him walk by, so taking him out was the only option. Chenot stepped out from behind the building, nodding at the sight of the German corpse sprawled on the ground.

  “Take his papers as well, please. Anything we can use later on to make false identifications for other partisans,” Chenot said.

  Lynch rifled through the man’s pockets, handing the Frenchman a small bundle of official documents. They had ransacked the first sentry as well, although the time wasted grated at Lynch’s nerves. He unbuckled the sentry’s cartridge pouch and handed it to Chenot. The Frenchman was ransacking all the Mauser ammunition he could in order to bring it back to his partisans after the raid, an act Lynch found particularly optimistic. Glancing at the sentry’s rifle, Lynch slipped the bolt from the rifle’s action, dropping it into the bottom of one of the rubbish bins.

  Chenot slung the ammunition around his waist, then helped Lynch drag the body behind the bins. They were three blocks from Merlimont’s town hall, and according to Laurent, that was where the Germans were keeping their prisoner. With a little luck and some careful maneuvering, the two of them should be able to approach the building without being spotted. What happened after that point was anyone’s guess.

  Lynch glanced at his watch. If Nelson was also on schedule, then his charges should begin blowing within the next twenty minutes. That did not leave a lot of time to get in and get out of the town hall, but then again, Lynch had never believed this mission could be accomplished in complete stealth; the destruction of the German’s motor pool was a planned distraction to draw attention away from the rescue. He just needed to time their own actions so that the explosions distracted the Germans, rather than put them on alert.

  Chenot was at the edge of the alleyway, looking out in both directions down the street. “Everything seems clear. Shall we chance a run across? We cannot risk crossing any closer to the hall.”

  Lynch nodded. Checking for the hundredth time to make sure his Thompson’s breech was clear of obstructions, he gave both sides of the street a final glance. No one moved, there was no sound, and no lights shined from windows to illuminate where they were about to run.

  “All right then. Off we go.”

  The two men stepped into the dark street, and automatic weapons fire ripped through the night.

  14

  Lance Corporal Harry Nelson was having the time of his life. A brawler and troublemaker from Liverpool, Nelson had joined the British army in 1938 only because he figured they would eventually find themselves across the Channel, putting boot to arse against the Jerries. Nelson knew it was only a matter of time before he had gotten himself into more legal trouble than he could worm his way out of, and at some point, he would wind up behind bars, at the end of a rope, or suffer some other unfortunate end to his life of miscreant activity.

  But once he enlisted, Nelson discovered that the army was far drearier than he ever imagined. Drill, duties, marching, cleaning, and more drill bored him to tears. When he went overseas as part of the BEF, his bloodthirsty daydreams - burying a bayonet in some Nazi’s throat, tossing hand grenades into machine gun pits, and dropping bridges into rivers - were dashed by several weeks of headlong flight back to the French coast. His ambitions to wreak havoc all the way to Berlin ended with Nelson standing in four feet of oily ocean water with his rifle propped across the back of his neck to keep it dry, shivering for hours until he was picked up and taken aboard a ship bound for England.

  Almost immediately after, Nelson volunteered for the Commandos, hoping to finally have some real fun. Indeed, he enjoyed blowing things apart up north during Operation Claymore, but the destruction had been dull, their operation almost entirely unopposed. When he had been introduced to Lord Pembroke back in Largs, Nelson had all but kissed the old man’s feet, he was so grateful to be picked for an assignment that would bring him face to face with the bloody Jerries. When the barn was attacked that night, Nelson cheerfully emptied four magazines from his Thompson into the German ranks, and he was sure of at least two kills. Pity about Smith and Green, but such was war. A dirty business, just the way he liked it.

  Nelson was currently lying on his back underneath a German lorry, clamping a magnetic charge to the underside of a petrol tank. The little beauty in his hand contained eight ounces of explosive, and the magnetic plate on one side securely clamped the device to the tank. A cursory thump to the side of the tank had proven it was almost completely full; his sabotage charge would turn the lorry into a wrecked inferno in the blink of an eye. This was the fourth lorry he had slid under, and like the previous three, Nelson secured a time pencil into the side of the charge and crimped the end with his pliers to arm the pencil. In approximately twenty minutes, the charge would explode, and Hitler would be deprived of one more troop transport.

  Nelson slid out from under the lorry. Pierre, his French teammate, stood in the shadows of the next target, his submachine gun at the ready. Pierre spoke not a word of English, and Nelson knew only a few simple phrases in French (most having to do with liquor and women), but the two were of a similar mindset, a pair of ruffians who liked to get stuck in and scrape their knuckles on another man’s teeth. Once Pierre understood what Nelson was going to do, he gave the Commando a broad, white-toothed grin and said “Ce qui est bon!”

  Nelson slid under the fifth lorry, working quickly. He only had six such devices with him, and with eight trucks in the motor pool, he selected vehicles close enough to others that, with the explosion of one, another would catch fire. He wished he had more time to skulk about but it would be a shame if his collection of little “presents” weren't entirely used up.

  Glancing off to the side, he could barely make out a crumpled form in the darkness underneath a nearby lorry. Killing the motor pool’s sentry had been a real treat. Nelson had crept up behind the man, and disdaining the need for a knife, had instead used one of Captain Fairbairn’s choke holds to kill the German, scissoring his throat between Nelson’s two forearms until the man passed out, at which point a savage twist broke the man’s neck. Should have paid a little more attention, you useless shit, he thought. Although he had done damage aplenty to other men’s bodies over the course of his life, in back-alley brawls or tavern scraps, Nelson had never killed a man with his bare hands before. The achievement left him giddy, and whatever tiny shred of guilt he might have had was swiftly erased by reminding himself that this was war, and his actions were condoned, blessed even, by king and country. Cor, that story will earn me pints back home, perhaps even let me get my hands on a fine pair of bristols! He could already taste the free porter, and imagine the female companionship!

  Nelson slid out from underneath the fifth lorry and moved to the sixth and final target. He slid under the belly of the beast and, as usual, gave the petrol tank a thump to determine if it was full. He was greeted with a sound that signified a topped-off tank, and was about to clap on the last charge, when the suspension of the truck creaked and shifted.

  “Hallo? Was ist los?” a sleepy voice called from the lorry’s cab.

  Nelson froze. Bloody hell, one of the Jerries was napping in the lorry! He silently prayed Pierre wouldn’t do anything rash, and he heard nothing from the Frenchman. Hoping the German would go back to sleep, he waited, but the lorry continued to shift. The napping sentry was completely awake now. With infinite care, Nelson slid himself down along the length of the lorry’s bed, hoping to get out from under the vehicle before the Nazi climbed from the cab.

  But no such luck. Above his head and to the right, a pair of German combat boots thudded into the dirt, and the door of the transport clicked shut.

  “Hans, wo bist du?” the sentry called out softly.

  Nelson imagined that Hans, now lying dead underneath a nearby lorry, was supposed to cover for his watc
h-mate while the fellow caught up on his napping. But now the bugger was awake and wondering where his Jerry friend had gone. Nelson rolled over onto his stomach, and lifting himself up off the ground by his fingers and toes, he slowly crabbed out from underneath the transport. He drew his dagger from its sheath, and softly unsnapped the holster of his Enfield revolver. There was still no sign of Pierre, which was good and bad; good that the Frenchman was staying out of sight, bad because his borrowed German uniform might have distracted the sentry for the crucial moment Nelson would have needed to ram his blade through the Jerrie’s neck. Pierre also had his Thompson, keeping care of the weapon while Nelson grubbed about in the dirt, but now with an enemy close by and the danger of discovery so great, he felt naked without its reassuring weight in his hands.

  The sentry’s footsteps were coming around the lorry now, and Nelson padded into the shadows. If he didn’t kill the man soon, the soldier would get suspicious and sound the alarm. But if he tried to hurry the deed, the chances of him succeeding were complete rubbish. He could feel a thin trickle of sweat run down his face from the strain of the situation, and his mind raced. The sentry had come around the corner now, and the man had produced an electric torch. The beam swept back and forth, and it was only a matter of time before Nelson was caught in the beam. He slid the dagger back in its sheath and drew out his revolver, thumbing back the hammer with delicate slowness. The click of the action sounded like a gunshot to his ears, but the German didn’t seem to notice.

  Suddenly, from his left, Nelson heard footsteps, and he turned his head to see another German silhouette appear. For a moment dread poured ice water through his veins, but with a moment’s scrutiny, he realized the newcomer was Pierre. The plucky Frog is going to attempt a bit of subterfuge, he thought.

  “Hallo,” Pierre said, attempting to grunt the word with the proper Germanic accent.

  “Hans, wo hast du gehen?” the sentry asked, bringing the torch around and shining it in Pierre’s face.

  There was just enough light reflected back onto the man that Nelson saw the gleam as his eyes went wide, and the dark O his mouth made, jaw dropped, when he realized he’d been had. The bloody jig is up, Nelson thought.

  Pierre knew it too. With no other viable option, he brought his MP-38 up and triggered a short burst into the sentry at nearly point-blank range. The German’s body was lit up by the muzzle blast as he was riddled with slugs, blood and bits of cloth spraying from the sentry’s back. Several bullets, having passed through the body, glanced off a transport behind him with an audible clang. The German hit the ground, gurgled for a few moments, then went limp. Nelson stepped out of the shadows and walked over to stand next to Pierre, looking down at the sentry’s corpse.

  “Well that didn’t bloody well go as planned, eh Frenchie?” he asked.

  Pierre just shrugged. “Merde.”

  The wail of an alarm klaxon signalled its agreement. Merde, indeed.

  15

  Lynch and Chenot stumbled for a moment as they heard the burst of automatic fire, the infantryman’s instinct to dive to the ground almost winning over. But when they both realized it wasn’t coming from nearby, their training took hold, and with a bit of mental calculation, they both came to the same conclusion at the same time. Lynch looked at Chenot.

  “The motor pool,” he said.

  “Oui. Let us hurry.”

  The two men sprinted across the street, ducking down into an alley and coming out behind the buildings just as the wail of a klaxon wound itself to full volume. The alarm sounded as if it was coming from the direction of the town’s schoolhouse, where the rest of the Germans were bivouacked, but there was no doubt that the guards protecting the town hall would be on full alert. Gone was any chance of knifing another bored sentry in the shadows. Now it was time for swift feet and a sure aim. Lynch motioned towards the town hall.

  “No more sneaking about, me boyo. Now it’s full steam ahead, and we kill anything in a German uniform.”

  Chenot nodded, patting the barrel of his gun. “I am ready.”

  The two men broke into a run, dashing down the back street behind the row of buildings, boots thudding into the ground, breath rasping in their throats. In a minute they came upon the town hall, now well illuminated by several lights turned on as soon as the alarm had sounded. Lynch paused only for a moment, shouldered his Thompson, and then rounded the corner. Two German guards stood on either side of the door, Mausers at the ready, and they noticed the shadowy figure emerging from the back alley just as a tongue of flame leapt at them from the muzzle of Lynch’s submachine gun.

  The long, raking burst walked across both men, starting at the belly of the man on the right and ending across the chest of the man next to him. The two sentries crumpled to the ground before they could even lift their rifles, cries of shock and pain turning to death-rattles as they twitched and went still. Lynch ran up between the two men, pointing his Thompson at the door’s latch and firing another short burst. The door handle disintegrated from the barrage, and on its own volition, the door creaked open an inch. Chenot ran up, and with a nod from Lynch, flung the door open, leaning out of the way as a barrage of nine-millimetre slugs tore through the open doorway. Lynch adjusted his hold on the grip of his Thompson, his hands slick with sweat. He took a deep breath, glanced at the waiting Chenot, and lunged through the door, his submachine gun spitting lead. A German NCO flew back against the far wall of the room, most of his face gnawed away by .45 calibre bullets, an MP-38 tumbling from nerveless fingers.

  “Clear!” Lynch shouted.

  Chenot came in right behind him, his weapon sweeping the room, seeking a target. Lynch changed magazines, his Thompson spent, and looked around the room. A ring with several brass keys hung from a peg on the wall, next to a cork board mostly covered by a map of Merlimont and the surrounding region. Several other desks were nearby, some covered in papers and other maps. A wireless set occupied one corner of the room. There was valuable intelligence here, German documents, perhaps even codebooks, and other information that could help the war effort.

  Lynch snatched the key ring from the wall and tossed it to Chenot. “Find the girl and get her here as fast as you can. I’ll guard the front door.”

  Chenot nodded and darted down a dark hall through a nearby doorway. Lynch kept the muzzle of his Thompson covering the entrance to the building, but so far no other Germans had made their presence known. Off in the distance, he could hear occasional shots and bursts of automatic fire, and he knew Nelson had his hands full. That rowdy Englishman must be enjoying himself, Lynch thought. I hope he lives to celebrate the fun afterward.

  There was a burst of fire from deep inside the building, and then another, and a third. Lynch tensed, turning to cover the hallway, but out of the dark he heard the Frenchman holler something encouraging, probably letting him know he was still alive. There was no answering gunfire.

  “Hurry your ruddy arse!” Lynch called after him.

  With a few moments remaining before Chenot’s hopeful return, Lynch stepped over to the nearby desks, and with one hand holding the Thompson the other hand snatched at papers, stuffing whatever he could into the large thigh pocket of his battle dress. He grabbed up memos, decrypted missives, even the codebooks from the wireless desk. Better to collect it and find out it wasn’t needed than to pass up the chance and regret it later.

  Footsteps pounded down the hall towards him, and Lynch turned to see a bloody but triumphant Chenot emerge with a young, dark-haired girl, draped in a torn skirt and bloody German uniform jacket carrying a submachine gun. The girl was battered but beautiful, and she carried the MP-38 in her hands as if she meant to use it the first chance she got.

  “We are ready,” Chenot said.

  The girl stared at Lynch, who must have looked quite the terror, covered in burnt cork blacking, dirt, and German blood.

  “About bloody time,” Lynch replied.

  He turned and fired a long burst into the wireless, shredding t
he device’s innards and rendering it inoperable.

  “Pardon my language, miss,” he added.

  There was a shout from outside the hall, and then another, and a stream of slugs ripped across the wall as two Germans burst in, firing their MP-38s from the hip. Bits of paper, cork, and brick exploded into the air, and the room filled with ricochets. Lynch felt a flattened slug pluck at his jacket sleeve, heard another buzz as it tumbled past his face. He triggered off a burst of his own, stitching one of the Germans from crotch to throat and knocking him back out the front door. The other man threw himself flat on the floor, diving behind the cover of a nearby desk. Chenot brought up his MP-38 and fired several long bursts, emptying the weapon’s magazine. The heavy wooden desk exploded in a flurry of splinters and paper, and an ink bottle detonated spectacularly, spraying the wall with a fine mist of black fluid.

  But the German still lived. The muzzle of his submachine gun stuck up over the desk and blazed away, burst after burst cutting through the air and forcing Lynch, Chenot, and the girl to duck or be killed. Lynch dropped to the floor, and from that vantage point he could see the field grey of the man’s uniform trousers as he knelt behind the desk. Lining up his sights, Lynch emptied the Thompson’s magazine into the man’s legs. WIth a tortured scream, the German fell forward and out into the middle of the floor, clutching at his shredded thighs. Lynch drew his Enfield and put a bullet through the Nazi’s face. He turned to Chenot and his ward while changing magazines.

  “Bloody Jerries are coming out of the woodwork now! Let’s go!”

  With Lynch in the lead, the trio dashed out of the town hall and into the night. Merlimont was taking notice; he could see light leaking out from the edges of blackout curtains here and there as the locals woke to find a firefight going on in the middle of their town. Off in the distance, Lynch could hear the rattle of automatic fire again, and he could recognize the distinctive sound of a Thompson, the report deeper and more rapid than its German counterpart. Apparently Nelson was still alive, and giving the Jerries a dose of hot lead. Lynch dug into his jacket pocket and produced the flare pistol. Pointing it into the air, he said a brief prayer under his breath in Gaelic and pulled the trigger.