Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “We need to draw them in closer first,” Steiner said. He placed his finger on the map. “Here should do it.”

  “They can cover that distance very quickly,” Hasek warned, “especially their armoured cars and those desert trucks.”

  “What do you think?” Steiner asked Kessler.

  The older officer studied the map for a long moment. “It will all depend on the man leading the armour. Those cruisers, the Tommies treat them like cavalry horses. They love to rush about the desert, making great sweeping flank attacks and other fancy manoeuvres, like they’re out on a parade ground. The terrain here, to the west, will be more favorable.”

  “But do you think they’ll press home the attack?” Hasek asked. “One hit from the eighty-eight, they’ll know what they’re facing.”

  Steiner smiled. “They have to attack, they have no choice.”

  Reaching over, Steiner picked up a large-scale map of the deep desert and unfolded it onto the table. His finger circled the area to the south-east of the airfield.

  “There is almost nothing permanent in this area, especially after my own outpost was destroyed two weeks ago. Running into the supply depot yesterday was no accident. The British knew it was there and deliberately attacked and secured it. I think the same holds true for this airfield. Taking this installation and denying DAK Command your reconnaissance flights is just what they’d want to do before moving a large armoured force through the southern corridor.”

  Steiner drew his finger along a sweeping arc from the Egyptian desert near Siwa, into Libya and up towards Tobruk. He looked up at the two other officers. “I hate to admit it, but I think the generals were right to send us here.”

  Kessler let out an indeterminate grunt. “I am still not convinced. You only saw a squadron of tanks and some light vehicles. That’s nothing. This could just be a reconnaissance in force, a probing manoeuvre to see what sorts of resources we have this far south.”

  Hasek waved his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Gentlemen, whatever it might be, we have to deal with the reality of an enemy force, larger than our own, most likely attacking us tomorrow morning. Now, you said they have no choice. What do you mean?”

  “It is simple,” Kessler replied before Steiner could speak up. “This airfield is the only installation close enough to reach with the fuel in their tanks. If it is a choice between pressing the attack and taking our fuel stores, or retreating back into the desert, only to run out of fuel and be left stranded, they’ll attack.”

  “You’re sure of this?” Hasek asked.

  Kessler shrugged. “It is what I would do. And you, Hauptmann?”

  “I would make the same decision,” Steiner said. “Now, Major, with your permission, I’d like the Oberleutnant to take me up on one more reconnaissance flight. If the British are to strike at dawn, they’ll have to leaguer close, most likely within a dozen kilometres or less.”

  Kessler nodded and looked to Hasek. “Is there enough daylight for a flight?”

  Hasek checked his watch. “Yes, but we’ll have to hurry. If we’re not in the air soon, we’ll have a devil of a time spotting them if they’re staying dispersed until nightfall.”

  “Then it is settled,” Kessler said. “I will make a last check of the preparations while you two are in the air. Then, when you return, a last briefing with the men, and a sleepless night before a dawn engagement none of us may live through. Another glorious battle for the heroes of the Third Reich!”

  “Heil Hitler!” Hasek said, snapping out his arm in a salute.

  Kessler smirked. “Oh yes, by all means.”

  It took a supreme effort of will to keep Steiner from laughing out loud as he followed the somewhat bemused Oberleutnant from the tent to the waiting Storch.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ten Miles South Of The Airfield

  November 16th, 1800 Hours

  “You’ve got to be bloody joking!”

  Lynch looked up from his bully beef and biscuits and looked in the direction Nelson was pointing. High above them, Lynch saw the now-familiar shape of the Storch, and his ears picked up the faint droning of its engine. The little plane was making a wide circle around their leaguer at an altitude too great for any of their weapons.

  “Like a bleedin’ vulture, so he is,” Lynch muttered.

  The two men were sitting with Lieutenant Price and the rest of their squad, having a hot meal cooked over a small sand-and-petrol fire before darkness came and no open flames would be permitted. Each man had a mug of hot, sweet tea fortified by a tot of rum or whiskey, as well as bully beef and biscuits, along with the last of the Italian cheese, sausage, and bread. Trooper Herring, proven to be one of the squad’s best plunderers, had acquired a bottle of Italian red wine, and several of the lads were passing it back and forth, diminishing its contents rapidly.

  “There’s nothing to be done,” Price said resignedly. “The Germans will now know we’ve not turned around, and they can only assume we’ll be attacking in the morning.”

  “D’you think they’ve got anything we should worry about?” asked Higgins.

  “Major Meade tells me early recce flights over this airfield showed an anti-air battery of eighty-eights, but the most recent observations indicated that the guns have been taken away, and the size of the installation much reduced. They may have some light weapons, but I can’t imagine it’s anything a squadron of tanks can’t handle.”

  “So we’re letting them armoured boys get shot at first?” Nelson asked.

  Price nodded. “The Sabre squadron will lead the attack. We’ll be splitting the trucks and armoured cars into two flanking elements, and while the armour takes the airfield, we’ll swing around on both sides and button them up so no one scuttles away.”

  “Can’t imagine any of the Jerries trying to scarper off,” Lynch said. “Nothing around us for miles in any direction, we’d just follow along and wait for the buggers to break down.”

  “Regardless, Major Meade is highly concerned about the Germans flapping away with much-needed supplies. So, we’ll do our jobs and make sure that doesn’t happen,” Price replied.

  Overhead, the Storch’s engine changed pitch, and the plane turned and flew off to the north, returning to its airfield. Everyone watched it go in silence for several minutes, until the plane disappeared from view.

  Bowen, sitting to Lynch’s right, watched the Storch depart through his field glasses. “Why do you suppose we’ve only been attacked by one flight of Stukas?” he wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t bloody care,” Lynch said to him. “I hate those bastards, so I do. Made the retreat to Dunkirk all the more bleedin’ miserable.”

  “The RAF didn’t have much problem with them,” Herring said. “Can’t imagine they were all that scary falling out of the sky in flames.”

  “Don’t bloody talk about what you don’t know,” Nelson growled at Herring from across the circle of men. “You weren’t there, so shut your gob.”

  “Or what?” Herring said flatly, staring at Nelson over the neck of the wine bottle raised to his lips.

  “Or I’ll get up and shove that bottle so far up yer arse, you’ll be doing hand-stands to drink from it.”

  There was a moment of complete silence until first Herring, then Nelson, started to rise to their feet. Before either could make a hostile move, however, Price cleared his throat.

  “Gentlemen, rather than someone being rudely violated with that bottle of red,” Price said in a neutral tone, “I would like a sip if there’s any left.”

  Herring and Nelson eyed each other like a pair of dogs challenging each other across a city street. Finally, without a word, Herring handed the wine bottle to Price.

  “Thank you, Trooper. Most kind of you,” Price said, before indelicately taking a slug of vino right from the bottle. He swished it about in his mouth before swallowing.

  “Not bad,” Price declared. “A bit sharp, but as this is the middle of the desert, I’m willing to
be forgiving. Besides, my palate is a little rusty.”

  There was an uneasy chuckle from several of the men, and at last, with the tension somewhat alleviated, Herring and Nelson slowly sank back to their seats, all the while staring daggers at each other.

  “Lieutenant,” Lance Corporal White spoke up, “what d’you suppose is the next target, after the airfield?”

  Price thought for a moment. “According to Meade’s intelligence, there’s another depot, much larger than the last, north of the airfield. The problem is, we don’t have enough petrol for the tanks to reach it as it is right now. The Italian armoured cars and the Chevrolets might make the journey, though.”

  “So we’d what, leave the armour here?” White asked.

  Price gave a small shrug. “That would be up to Major Meade to decide. But considering the timetable of the offensive, it might be more important to attack the depot with tanks and hope the defenders relay that information up the chain of command, to add confusion to the events of the eighteenth, when all the other tanks pour over the border far to the north. That is, after all, why we’re here in the first place.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Johnson, Bowen’s spotter, replied, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather be in Scotland right now.”

  The comment caused more than a few laughs from the circle of men, and what tension remained in the air quickly evaporated.

  “I must say, I agree with your sentiment completely,” Price answered. “It’ll be good to get back to our homeland once more.”

  “Aye, and back to the training grounds,” muttered Sergeant McTeague. He took his pipe from between his lips and pointed its stem at the men. “All ye sluggards are gettin’ soft feet, swanning about the desert in these trucks. A few good day marches up and down some hills with a full load on your backs will make you proper soldiers again.”

  McTeague’s comment was met with a chorus of groans that put a smile on the Scottish sergeant’s lips. He stuck the stem of his pipe in his mouth and puffed triumphantly.

  “Lieutenant, do you have any idea now, when we might return home?” Lynch asked.

  Price shook his head. “I imagine if the powers-that-be behind the lines at Headquarters have no further use for us, we might be sent back by the end of the month. There was discussion of a possible mission to take place before the end of the year, and we may be home in time to take part, if it hasn’t been scrapped for some reason.”

  “One battlefield after another,” Trooper Hall said gloomily. “It’s only going to get worse, before it gets better, isn’t it?”

  “The last we heard,” Price said, “Jerry was giving the Soviets a good drubbing, pushing them back hard. I imagine things have slowed down with the winter, but if Stalin is forced to capitulate, the Germans will be able to turn their full attention on us.”

  “Not happy with Ivan’s chances, to be sure,” Lynch said. “The Finns gave ‘em quite the bloody nose last winter, so they did.”

  “Aye, that may be true,” McTeague replied. “But this time, the Ivans are the ones defending hearth an’ home. If they’re smart - and Stalin’s a bloody clever bastard - they’ll trade ground for time, draw the Jerries in deep, then the bear brings its jaws together, and chews up the Nazis.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Higgins said, staring into the bottom of his mug, “or we’ll be fighting Jerries in the streets of London by this time next year.”

  “On that cheery note,” Price said with finality, “I’ve got to meet with Major Meade and the other officers before catching a few hours of sleep. I suggest you lads get all the rest you can, because it’s going to be an early morning.”

  “It’s always an early morning,” grumbled Johnson.

  “As I said, sluggards all of ye,” McTeague stood and stretched before picking up his Thompson. “Now, off with the lot of ye. Back to your trucks.”

  After a few moments of grousing, the Commandos got to their feet and gathered their weapons and kit. Lynch turned to Bowen. “Driving your truck tomorrow, Rhys?”

  The Welshman nodded. “Not much use for my sniper rifle in a moving truck, and Johnson likes the Vickers.”

  “Well then, good luck now, and good hunting.”

  Bowen smiled. “You too, Tommy.”

  The two men shook hands, and Bowen walked off, his spotter by his side. Lynch watched his friend leave for a moment, then turned to Higgins, standing nearby.

  “Alright now,” Lynch said, stifling a yawn, “who gets first watch?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Ten Miles South Of The Airfield

  November 17th, 0600 Hours

  Lieutenant Alan Chalmers stood in the open hatch of his Crusader tank and scanned the northern horizon for the twentieth time in as many minutes. His troop of three tanks was second from the right, Wilson’s troop forming that flank, while to his left, Major Meade’s headquarters troop of four tanks formed the centre of the formation.

  The sabre squadron was moving north along a broad front, almost a mile wide, with a hundred yards between each tank in order to give them the best chances of spotting the target. Although their navigation so far left little to be concerned about, the vast, featureless desert meant they were taking no chances in locating the airfield. The morning air was cool, with only a slight breeze, and with the sun to his right, well out of his eyes, Chalmers felt the morning provided optimum conditions for their manoeuvres.

  And it was a manoeuvre, not an attack, or a battle, he reasoned. There was little the Germans could field to defend a mere recce airfield that would give much grief to a squadron of fifteen cruiser tanks. Chalmers didn’t discount the possibility of the defenders possessing a light AT-gun or two, but their tanks’ Besa machine guns and the 3-inch howitzers of the two close-support tanks within the HQ troop would see to those in short order. In reality, Chalmers anticipated that the whole action would be over in a few minutes, with the expenditure of only a few dozen machine gun bullets to show the Jerries they meant business.

  It would be the second combat action of his short career, the first being the attack on the supply depot the day before. Chalmers was fortunate enough to have fired a shot with his two-pounder and seen it hit, but the poor Eyetie tank had been riddled with shots and burning within moments, and there was still debate over which tank would claim the squadron’s first kill of the war. Chalmers certainly hoped it wasn’t the last, for he and the other troop leaders of the squadron had been incredibly disappointed when Meade was assigned this mission. Swanning about in the deep desert shooting up depots and airbases wasn’t where the real glory was found. More than anything else, Chalmers wanted to pit his tank against the Germans, to go head to head against a Panzer III and knock a hole in it. A storied battle record would serve him well, making a promotion to squadron leader and eventually regimental commander much more likely. But none of that would be possible if he was stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.

  Chalmers’ headphones crackled as the RT came alive.

  “Hello all stations GAMO,” Meade’s voice came through clearly, “this is GAMO calling. We are approaching the target point very shortly. Report immediately if you see anything. GAMO off.”

  Chalmers brought his field glasses up once more and peered ahead, bracing himself against the armoured hatch cover next to him. For perhaps a minute he saw nothing, before suddenly blinking at the faint hint of a hair-thin structure rising up into the air, far ahead of them. Chalmers took away his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes, then brought the glasses back up and looked again, making tiny adjustments to the focusing wheel. He convinced himself he was looking at the airfield’s wireless tower.

  “Calling GAMO, this is GAMO Three calling,” Chalmers radioed in. “I see the tower, directly in front of me, approximate figures two zero zero zero yards distant.”

  “GAMO calling GAMO Three, good show. All stations GAMO, pull into close formation, and report in when you’ve made visual contact yourselves. GAMO to all stations BAGO,
target sighted, begin your manoeuvre. GAMO off.”

  Soon, each of the three other troop commanders called in, reporting that they’d made visual contact with the airfield. By now, the tops of the larger tents were visible, and a small number of large vehicles, what appeared to be lorries, were seen nearby.

  “Calling GAMO, this is BAGO One calling.” Chalmers heard the voice of the armoured car squadron’s commander, a captain named Moody. “There is a shallow ravine here to the east, running in a north-south direction. It looks like it might give us cover while we move up, over.”

  “BAGO One, go ahead and move into the ravine, just be sure you won’t get boxed in at the end. Off to you.”

  Chalmers looked to the east and tried to spot the armoured cars and LRDG trucks, but the sun was barely over the horizon, and he didn’t want to blind himself by squinting into it just before going into action. He turned back to look at the airfield again, just as a flash and a puff of smoke appeared from one of the larger tents, almost as if-

  There was a crack and a buffet of air from his left, and Chalmers whipped his head around. He saw a plume of sand erupt two hundred yards behind them, and a few seconds later, the boom of a heavy gun reached his ears. Chalmers’ mind raced, for the sound wasn’t like that of an artillery piece or a light AT gun. Although he’d never heard one before, he could almost imagine it might have sounded like…

  There was another flash and puff of smoke, and a second later, a horrific sound of high-velocity steel meeting an insufficient mass of armour plate. Chalmers saw chunks of metal flying into the air from the front of the second HQ Crusader, Lieutenant Sommersby’s tank. Almost immediately, the tank burst into flames, smoke billowing out of every hatch, and the tank ground quickly to a halt, dropping out of formation. Chalmers could not help but look back in horrid fascination as an internal explosion rocked the dying tank, ripping away the turret and sending it toppling onto the sand.