Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “All stations GAMO, that was an eight-eight! I say again, that was an eight-eight!” Meade’s voice cut through the headphones and shocked Chalmers back to the reality of the situation. “Turn west figures forty-five degrees immediately and move at best speed while we fire smoke. GAMO off.”

  “Driver,” Chalmers spoke over the intercom, “turn forty-five degrees left, and increase to best speed.”

  “But sir,” It was Miller, Chalmers’ gunner. “We’ll be exposing our flank to that great beast of a gun!”

  “It’s a bloody eighty-eight, you fool,” Chalmers shot back. “It won’t matter where it hits us.”

  The tank shuddered for a moment as the driver worked the track clutches, and their course shifted to put the airfield off to their forward right flank. There was another flash, and a moment later, sand geysered up into the air between his trailing tank and the lead tank of Wilson’s troop. Another round followed soon after, passing between Wilson’s tank and the lead tank of his troop.

  There were two thumps from ahead of his tank, and Chalmers turned to see puffs of smoke curling away from the two close support Crusaders. Each of the tanks was fitted with a three-inch light howitzer, and most of their shells were smoke rounds, used to cover the advances and retreats of the squadron. Two gouts of white smoke popped into the air a hundred yards short of the 88, followed soon by two more. The gunners were being clever, trying to get the smoke as close to the enemy as possible, so it would afford the squadron the most protection.

  But even as a third pair of smoke shells landed, the eighty-eight fired again, the lethal shot so low Chalmers thought he saw a trail of dust raised from the ground in the wake of its passing. Again, the shell missed Wilson’s lead tank by mere feet, and Chalmers found himself urging the tank’s driver to push his mount to the limit. He could only imagine the dread of the tank’s crew, knowing the eighty-eight’s gunner was singling them out for destruction.

  A moment later, that destruction came to pass. The armour-piercing round struck the Crusader broadside, and Chalmers looked on in astonishment as he saw the shot pass right through the tank, blowing out the other side in a spray of hull fragments. The tank’s commander, standing in the open hatch, let out a brief shriek before disappearing in a gout of flame and smoke. A heartbeat later, the tank simply exploded into a ball of fire and spinning chunks of armour.

  Enough was bloody well enough, Chalmers thought. It was time to fight back. He gauged the range between his tank and the airfield to be about fifteen hundred yards. Beyond what he’d consider maximum effective range of his tank’s machine gun, but Chalmers knew the weapon was lethal far beyond that distance.

  “Gunner, MG, anti-tank gun, western end of the airfield, fifteen hundred yards,” Chalmers ordered over the intercom.

  The turret whined as Miller rotated it to the right, bringing the tank’s co-axial Besa machine gun onto the target.

  “I have it, sir. Extreme range, though,” Miller answered.

  “I know! Gunner, fire!” Chalmers replied.

  A stream of tracers arced up into the air, descending with deceptive slowness towards the airfield. Chalmers watched them vanish into the sand, a few of them bouncing off rocks and ricocheting back up into the air.

  “Gunner, you’re short. Increase range two hundred yards and fire,” Chalmers ordered.

  Miller fired another long burst from the Besa MG, and this time Chalmers saw the tracers float down into the middle of the tents around the western end of the airfield.

  Having found the range, Chalmers keyed the radio mic. “GAMO Three to GAMO Three A and B, engage enemy eighty-eight with your machine guns, range is figures one seven zero zero yards. GAMO Three off.”

  The turrets of the two tanks on either side of him rotated, and soon, all three of his troops’ machine guns were firing bursts in long arcs towards the tent concealing the eighty-eight. For a few seconds, the deadly gun went silent, and Chalmers congratulated himself on his quick thinking.

  “GAMO to GAMO Three, I did not give the order to fire! We need to take any petrol stores intact! If those tracers ignite that fuel, we’re done for! Cease fire!”

  Bloody Meade! Chalmers gritted his teeth. Both of his troop tanks stopped firing the moment their commanders heard Meade’s order, not waiting for him to relay it on.

  “Sir?” Miller asked from inside the turret.

  “Gunner, cease fire, but make sure that Besa is loaded and ready,” he replied.

  The eighty-eight, sensing its reprieve, fired again. The shot passed behind the last tank in Wilson’s troop, kicking up a gout of sand a hundred yards to the south-west. Looking ahead, Chalmers saw the CS tanks had laid down more smoke, and within a few moments, if they were lucky, they’d be in a position where the smoke cloud obscured them from the eighty-eight.

  Suddenly Chalmers heard what sounded like the flat cracks of high-velocity tank guns, coming from the north-west. He raised his field glasses, trying to see who the leading tanks might be shooting at, when he saw the lead tank of the first troop grind to a halt and begin to burn. Immediately, streams of tracer fire began to arc out from the other two tanks in the troop, scything across what at first appeared to Chalmers to be open ground.

  “All stations GAMO, this is GAMO One calling. Anti-tank gun screen to our front, figures six zero zero yards. My sergeant’s tank is dead, we are attempting to suppress with our MGs, over.”

  “GAMO calling GAMO One, do you have figures on number of guns, over?” Meade replied.

  “GAMO One here, we count at least, repeat, at least figures four guns, well dug in, over.”

  “GAMO calling BAGO Two, move with all haste to engage the anti-tank gun screen ahead of us. Off to you. All stations GAMO, continue current course. We need to get behind that smoke screen before doing anything else. Off to you. BAGO One, how close are you to the airfield, over?”

  “BAGO One calling GAMO,” Moody replied. “We are still in cover, now figures one two zero zero yards from the airfield. Will emerge as close as possible and engage the-”

  Chalmers heard the muffled clang of steel plate breaking under impact and a cry of pain directed straight into the live microphone.

  “Panzers! Bloody panzers! All stations, it’s a trap! The ravine is filled with-”

  The air was filled with static for a moment before the transmission went dead.

  Chalmers turned to the east and squinted into the sun, raising up his field glasses and scanning the terrain. A thin column of black smoke began to climb up into the air some two thousand yards away.

  “GAMO calling any stations BAGO One, report!” Meade’s voice cut through the net, a note of rising panic in his voice.

  “The captain’s ‘ad it!” a voice cried over the radio. “There’s panzers hiding in here, it’s a bloody ambush!”

  The sound of an autocannon firing came over the radio, and pulling one earpiece away from his head, Chalmers heard the weapon firing off in the distance, the boomboomboom of an Autoblinda’s cannon. There were a pair of louder, flatter-sounding shots a moment later, and a ball of fire rose up out of the ravine. The open channel squealed in sharp static for a second before going dead again.

  “GAMO calling any stations BAGO One, pull back and get clear. Off to you. All stations GAMO, move to a position behind the smoke screen. GAMO One and Two, suppress the AT gun screen with your MGs. Off to you. GAMO Three and Four, turn and engage any enemy armour appearing from the east. Off to you. BAGO Two, deal with that AT gun screen, then move at best speed to try and neutralize the eighty-eight. We need to deal with it before we can fight the panzers. Off to you.”

  Chalmers saw the two CS tanks firing as fast as their gunners and loaders could work their howitzers, the shells creating a thin but possibly life-saving cloud of concealing smoke. He hoped it would make the difference, but a pair of three-inch guns was woefully inadequate for the task at hand. When cruisers went into battle behind a screen of smoke, they were usually supported by a battery o
r two of twenty-five pound guns hurling massive smoke shells.

  With the eighty-eight to their right, an enemy gun screen ahead, and now panzers to the rear, Chalmers suddenly felt very, very alone.

  “Driver, wheel right, bring us about facing to the east. Loader, two-pounder, load and make ready additional rounds. Gunner, two-pounder, prepare to engage enemy armour, current estimated range two thousand yards.”

  Well, you wanted some real action, Chalmers scolded himself. Let’s hope we live through it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  West Of The Airfield

  November 17th, 0615 Hours

  Lynch didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he knew it couldn’t be good. The sounds of large-bore cannons firing, as well as the chatter of machine guns and the higher-pitched sounds of light, high-velocity tank guns were coming from the east, and smoke columns were climbing up into the air. The pair of Autoblindas and the single Morris car ahead of them had suddenly changed direction, their course now almost due east, towards the airfield. Because the trucks lacked the radios carried aboard the armoured cars, their orders were to simply follow behind their bigger kin in a form of “follow the leader” and engage where indicated.

  As they approached the airfield, the situation became clear. Directly to the east, the airfield sat behind a slowly-drifting smoke screen, the two CS Crusader tanks firing shell after shell as fast as their guns could be loaded. The rest of the sabre squadron, or what was left of it, was split into two groups: those engaging a line of anti-tank guns to the north-west, and those turning to face a dozen or so dots to the south-east. The dots moved in a way that was chillingly familiar to Lynch, and brought to mind the battle of Arras, where he watched German panzers advancing past the shattered wrecks of Matilda tanks torn apart by eighty-eights. Watching those dots approach now, Lynch knew they could only be enemy armour.

  As they approached the anti-tank gun line, the Autoblindas opened fire with their 20mm autocannons and machine guns. The turret-mounted Bren of the Morris car added its meagre firepower to the assault, and soon the gunners aboard the Chevrolet trucks opened fire as well. A storm of lead and explosive cannon shells sent a cloud of sand and pulverized rock into the air around the nearest Pak 36 guns, but the Germans had placed them extremely carefully. The gun carriages were situated in shallow depressions dug into the rocky ground, and the crews worked the guns from foxholes, providing them increased cover. In addition, the guns were spaced a hundred yards apart, deployed on a wide front and forcing the British to engage them not as a target en masse, but one tiny, well-protected emplacement at a time.

  And the Germans weren’t defenceless, either. An MG-34 team dug in behind and between the middle two Pak guns opened fire on the approaching British vehicles, forcing the Autoblindas to button up and the LRDG trucks to take evasive manoeuvres. The pressure off them for a moment, the nearest Pak gun crew moved to re-sight their gun towards the new threat. With a loud clang, an armour-piercing shell grazed the side armour of the lead Autoblinda and plowed a furrow into the desert sand. In response, the car’s 20mm autocannon chattered, sending a half-dozen shells hammering into the gun emplacement. Lynch watched from a distance as the Pak 36’s gun shield came apart in a spectacular display of flying metal and dust.

  “Those Jerry blighters are done for!” Higgins shouted above the roar of the column’s weapons.

  As if in response, the MG crew chose that moment to rake their car with bullets. The sun compass next to the driver’s seat was smashed into fragments, and a pack hanging from the side of the truck exploded into tatters and bits of shredded gear as it caught several slugs. Lawless let out a long string of curses.

  “Are you hit?” Lynch shouted at the New Zealander.

  “No, that was my bloody kit they just shot up!” Lawless replied. “Higgins, keep your bloody gob shut, mate!”

  No sooner had the MG team attacked Lynch’s truck than both Autoblindas, virtually immune to the weapon’s fire, turned their autocannons on the German’s slit trench. Each car fired off a twelve-round clip of 20mm high-explosive shells, and when the smoke cleared, all that was left of the gunners was the twisted wreck of a machine gun and a few scattered, bloody remnants of cloth and flesh.

  Moments later, the armoured cars and LRDG trucks drove past the remains of the first Pak gun team and closed in on the second. The Pak crew tried to bring their gun around, but it was too little, too late. Lynch swung the Vickers MG towards their position, and with deliberate care, sprayed the gun and its crew with several tight bursts. One of the Germans attempted to return fire with an MP-40, but by exposing himself enough to fire the weapon, he caught a pair of .303 calibre bullets in the face, dropping him limp and lifeless back into his foxhole. As the truck sped past, Lawless threw a Mills Bomb at the emplacement for good measure. The blast ripped into a box of 37mm shells, and soon, the emplacement was engulfed in smoke and flame as the anti-tank rounds detonated one after another in a rapid-fire chain reaction.

  With half their number wiped out, a column of fast-moving vehicles spitting machine gun fire coming from one direction, and several Crusader tanks firing their own MGs from another, the remaining Pak gunners clearly felt that seeking cover and surviving was preferable to manning their guns until the bitter end. Both crews disappeared into their foxholes, and Lynch saw a rifle tossed onto the ground from inside a foxhole next to the nearest gun. The vehicle column began to turn, coming to bear on the airfield hundreds of yards away.

  In the distance, Lynch’s eyes caught movement near the German lorries parked along one end of the airfield. A troop of four armoured vehicles of various types pulled out from behind the lorries, and before Lynch could say anything to Lawless or Higgins, the enemy column opened fire. 20mm cannon shells and machine gun bullets hammered across the leading armoured cars, and in spectacular fashion, the lead Autoblinda blew apart, its steel plate penetrated a dozen times by high-explosive and armour-piercing cannon fire.

  “Bloody hell!” Lawless shouted. “We’ve been sandbagged!”

  No sooner had the New Zealander spoken up, than the Morris car was ripped apart by the enemy’s combined weight of fire. Even more lightly armoured than the Italian cars, the Morris was literally torn to pieces, plates of steel armour and mechanical innards flung yards in every direction. Lynch caught a glimpse of a severed arm cartwheeling in the air before it was hit by a stray cannon round and blown to gibbets.

  The remaining Autoblinda gunned its engine in reverse, and returned fire with its own 20mm cannon. Its target, which Lynch realized was actually a Panzer II, soon ground to a halt as its thin armour succumbing to the same punishment it had dealt out only moments before. Soon smoke curled out of the panzer’s hatch, and the vehicle shuddered to a halt, left behind as the three other vehicles - two light, four-wheeled cars and a heavy eight-wheeled model - rushed into battle, their cannons blazing.

  The outcome was inevitable. The side hatches of the last Autoblinda popped open and a pair of figures tumbled out, followed by a gout of vile-looking black smoke. Even from a distance, Lynch identified one of the men as Captain Eldred.

  “Higgins, bring us in behind the last car!” Lynch shouted. “We’ve got to fetch the captain before he’s thrown in the bag!”

  Indeed, the armoured cars continued to close in, but without their previous vigor, and their guns were silent. Lynch imagined the Germans, having knocked out the armoured cars, were expecting to scoop up the much more poorly armed LRDG vehicles.

  However, not everyone was in agreement as to the state of the trucks’ helplessness. From his right, Lynch heard the boomboomboom of a Breda autocannon, and he turned to see Harry Nelson’s truck racing away at an angle, the muzzle of the portee-mounted cannon poking out over the left fender. Nelson’s face was contorted in rage, and although he couldn’t hear him, Lynch saw his squadmate was screaming at the top of his lungs, no doubt letting loose with a stream of profanity strong enough to curdle milk.

  “What’s
that blinkered idiot doing?” Higgins cried. “He’s going to get himself killed!”

  “Nothing to be done about that madness now,” Lynch replied. “Let’s get in there and rescue the captain!”

  Just then, Lieutenant Price’s truck pulled alongside, and the lieutenant leaned out towards Lynch’s car. “We’ve got to leg it!” Price shouted. “This whole operation’s bungled! Meade’s lot are brewing up like pots in a tea shop, and the rest of our men are dead or captured! Follow me!”

  “I’m going in to pick up Captain Eldred!” Lynch shouted back.

  Price looked towards Eldred, huddled behind the smoking wreck of his armoured car, a pistol in hand. He nodded.

  “Alright, but be quick about it! We’ve got to salvage something from this disaster!”

  With that, Price pulled away and headed west, followed by McTeague, whose truck carried the only remaining heavy weapon, the portee-mounted “squeeze bore” anti-tank gun. Lynch caught the sergeant’s eye, and the Scotsman nodded to him once, then turned to say something to Trooper Hall in the driver’s seat.

  Lynch looked to the right and saw Nelson’s truck still intact, racing across the desert at top speed. The 20mm Breda continued to fire, and Lynch saw enemy tracers from autocannons and machine guns whipping all around the vehicle. He knew without a doubt his friend’s life was now measured in seconds, and he’d not waste the sacrifice.

  “Go on now!” Lynch shouted to Higgins. “Move up to the bloody car!”

  Higgins shook his head in disbelief, but moved forward nonetheless, keeping the smoking wreck of the Autoblinda between them and the advancing Germans. As they pulled up next to Eldred, Lynch leaned out and offered the Captain his hand.

  “Up with ye now, sir!” Lynch shouted.

  Eldred gave a last look at the man who bailed out with him, now crumpled in a heap against the rear wheel of the car. Lynch saw the man wasn’t a Commando, but one of the armoured car crewmen from the 11th Hussars.