Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  Not so bloody clever, are you, Fritz?

  “So, you didn’t hit your head as hard as I thought.”

  Nelson turned around. Herring was sitting cross-legged behind him, a remnant of biscuit in his hand. The wiry little Commando had a bruised cheek and a cut over one eye, but other than that, he appeared in decent shape, although there was a considerable amount of dried blood all over the left side of his battledress.

  “Don’t know about that, I’ve got a bloody hard head,” Nelson replied.

  “No doubt,” Herring said.

  Nelson looked around again at the survivors. “Did that Kiwi of ours…?”

  Herring shook his head and pointed at the blood all over his side. “Must have been hit by a shell from one of those armoured cars. He just about blew apart.”

  “Poor blighter,” Nelson muttered. “Never knew what killed him, I wager.”

  Herring shrugged. “Better him than me. If he hadn’t taken the hit, I would have.”

  “Right cold bastard, aren’t you?” Nelson said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Coming from you,” Herring shot back, “that’s a bloody compliment.”

  Nelson’s hands balled into fists, and he moved to get up, but after a moment, common sense prevailed, and he relaxed with some effort. The situation was bad enough without fighting among themselves.

  “I don’t see any more of our lads,” Nelson said after a moment, “from our squad or the other. Looks to be mostly the major’s boys.”

  Herring nodded. “There’s a fellow from the other recce element, one of the armoured car crewmen, but someone said they don’t think he’ll live through the day, even though the Germans patched him up. No other Commandos though. Not sure if that means the rest escaped, or they’re dead.”

  “The last thing I remember is seeing our boys legging it away from the fight,” Nelson said. “I hope they managed to get clear, but how the hell did we not get blown to bits?”

  “They raked us with those cannons, and both left side wheels blew out. We started to fishtail and I heard you go over the side right before the engine took a couple of hits and died. I bailed out before I was perforated, and they chopped the truck up but good. The old girl caught fire and I had to give up the fight before she blew up next to me.”

  “Well, sod me for a game of soldiers, but this didn’t turn out well,” Nelson grumbled. He experimented with moving his arms, rolling his shoulders and wrists, and flexing at the elbow. Although everything hurt, he seemed to be without any serious injury.

  Herring glanced around at the three guards, then leaned in close. “Did they find everything of yours?”

  Nelson frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “When they searched you, did they find everything? Do you have a bit of kit tucked away?”

  Nelson looked towards the guards, but they seemed more intent on scanning the horizon than paying attention to their prisoners. Harry surreptitiously tapped his chest.

  “Got me brass knuckles on a leather thong around me neck,” he whispered.

  Herring nodded and tapped a finger against his ankle. “They missed my switch-knife.”

  “Better than nothing, eh wot?” Nelson said with a sly grin.

  “Nothing or no, we’re still in the bag. And beyond our jailors, there’s those monsters to contend with.” Herring pointed to the other end of the airfield.

  Nelson shielded his eyes and looked. There were four tanks leaguered at the southern end of the airfield. Three were Panzer IIIs, the last a larger IV. Another Panzer IV was slowly rumbling across the desert towards the others, escorted by one of the two light armoured cars. The remaining two armoured cars were off to the south-east, near the ravine where the other half of the recce element had gone - and probably been slaughtered. To the south and west, columns of smoke rose up from all along the horizon, showing where both friend and foe had met a fiery end.

  Nelson turned back to Herring. “How many panzers do you suppose there were? I can’t imagine just these few drubbed so many of our lads.”

  “I asked one of the tankers,” Herring replied. “He said there were about a dozen, but that big gun firing from the airfield was an eighty-eight, and it knocked out a number of our tanks. Then there were the two Pak guns we didn’t deal with.”

  “A right cock-up, it seems,” Nelson said, gingerly running fingers along the wound in his scalp.

  “So, what do we do?” Herring asked.

  Nelson shook his head gingerly. “Nothing we bloody well can do right now. The other lads got away, and that great big show tomorrow might cause Jerry quite the fit. Who knows? Maybe by the end of the year, we’ll be out of the bag, and it’ll be us guarding a pack of Fritzes.”

  Herring scooted closer and leaned in. “Bollocks. I know you, Nelson. You’re a braggart and a right tosser, but you’re also a throat-cutter, a scoundrel, just like me. You’re not going to sit on your great big arse and pick at fleas in some Jerry lock-up while the war goes on.”

  The two men locked eyes for a long moment, until finally, a smile curled Nelson’s lips. “I knew there was something bloody wrong with you. Alright, you little wanker. We sit tight until tonight, feel out a few of these other lads, and then we make our move if the dice feel like they’ll roll our way.”

  Herring nodded, then glanced past Nelson. “Jerries coming.”

  Nelson turned as a pair of German officers approached. One of them, a Hauptmann by his insignia, was dressed in the standard DAK uniform with a soft cap, while the other man, an Oberleutnant, wore a hard peaked cap with Luftwaffe insignia. The two men conversed in German for a few moments, before the senior officer addressed the British prisoners.

  “Burial detail,” the German said in unaccented English. “You will recover the bodies of your comrades, and then bury them. Our men will do the same with our dead. In a gesture of goodwill, we shall dig the graves together. You men fought hard this morning, and we respect that. The desert is no place to fight a war, if such a place does exist, and although you lost today, we have all suffered through these long months.”

  The German looked around the group sitting or lying before him, then pointed at one of the British. “You. You’re an officer.”

  One of the tankers got to his feet with painful slowness. “Lieutenant Chalmers, E Squadron, 2nd Gloucestershire Hussars. Major Meade was killed in action this morning. I suppose that makes me the senior British officer present.”

  “Lieutenant Chalmers, do you guarantee the good behavior of these men?” the German asked.

  Chalmers turned and eyed the men around him. “As long as we are treated well and fairly, there’ll be no trouble. Now, sir, to whom have we surrendered ourselves?”

  “I am Hauptmann Steiner, of the Regiment Brandenburg.” the German replied. “This is Oberleutnant Hasek, of the Luftwaffe. I am now the senior officer here.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” Chalmers said. “What do you mean by ‘now’?”

  Steiner gave Chalmers a thin smile. “My commanding officer, Major Kessler, died during the battle as well. Now, come Lieutenant, let us bury him, along with whatever’s left of your Major Meade.”

  Nelson, Herring, and the other British prisoners got to their feet, and covered by the gun muzzles of their German captors, walked out into the desert to go and bury their collective dead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Twenty Miles South-West Of The Airfield

  November 17th, 1030 Hours

  The four Chevrolet trucks - all that was left of Meadeforce - rolled to a stop a half-mile into the ravine. They’d spotted the broken ground after hours of driving through the desert, first due west, then turning to the south after consulting a map. A LRDG patrol some months ago had made a deep reconnaissance into Libya and noted some broken ground in the area, so Eldred and Price had decided to go there in order to hole up for the rest of the day and regroup.

  Eldred dismounted from Lynch’s truck, and the Irishman watched as the captain looked over his meagre comm
and. They were only thirteen men - nine Commandos and four of the Desert Group. Barely a single squad’s worth, and ill-equipped to fight any Germans they might encounter. Their sole heavy weapon was the 28mm “squeeze bore”, the lightest of the German army’s anti-tank guns. Aside from that, there were three Boys anti-tank rifles, seven machine guns, and their individual small arms.

  “Alright lads, listen up,” Eldred spoke, his voice carrying to every man. “We’ve suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of the enemy this morning, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. But we are alive, we are well-trained, and most of all, we want to go on to win the war. We will leaguer here for the rest of the day, so get some rest, tend to your kit, and make any necessary repairs. We will assess our supplies, ration accordingly, and in the morning we will make for friendly lines. Are there any questions?”

  No one spoke up. Eldred looked each man in the eye. “Excellent. Corporal Bowen, I want you and your spotter on the top of this ravine. Make your way back to where we entered and set up an OP to make sure we haven’t been followed. You men of the Desert Group, I want you to make a thorough examination of your trucks and the supplies of petrol, water, and food. The rest of you, inventory our weapons, ammunition, and any other ordnance. Sergeant McTeague?”

  The Scottish sergeant nodded. “Aye, Captain?”

  “That Boche anti-tank gun is your responsibility. Get it checked out, then make sure it is ready to be served and put to use.”

  “Yessir, right away. Higgins, you’re with me.”

  “Corporal Lynch?” Eldred asked.

  “Captain?” Lynch replied.

  “I’m putting you in charge of the anti-tank rifles. Examine each in turn, make sure they are operational, and prepare them in case we are attacked.”

  “Good as done, sir,” Lynch answered.

  Moving aside a few parcels that had come loose during their flap across the desert, Lynch uncovered the Boys anti-tank rifle nestled along one side of the truck. He lifted the weapon by its carrying handle, grunting with the effort of moving the weapon’s thirty-five pounds one-handed. Five feet long, and incredibly unwieldy, the bolt-action rifle fired a .55 calibre armour-piercing bullet. The blast and recoil of the weapon were astonishing, and despite being called an “anti-tank” rifle, it was all but useless against an actual tank. However, during their mission last month, a number of Boys rifle teams working together were able to cripple a couple of Autoblinda armoured cars at close range. Lynch thought the weapon’s “success” during that encounter might be a case of damning with faint praise, but right now, it was the best they had next to their lone anti-tank gun.

  Lynch opened a canvas satchel next to the rifle and pulled free one of the Boys’ five-round magazines. He opened the rifle’s bolt, checked its action to make sure the weapon was operating normally, and then seated the magazine. Satisfied that the rifle was battle-ready, Lynch slung his own personal weapon - his Thompson submachine gun - and moved to the next truck.

  Lynch and the other men went about their tasks with a purpose, hoping to put from their minds thoughts of friends and comrades lost, the likelihood of their own capture or death at the hands of the Germans, and the difficult conditions all around them, which lessened their already slim chances of making it back to friendly lines. Lynch had to remind himself that, as bad as it was, he’d escaped from bad situations before. The battle for France in the summer of 1940 had been a nightmare; days upon days of retreating under constant attack from the Germans. Artillery barrages, Stuka dive-bomber attacks, and the ever-encroaching enemy infantry and panzer formations had driven them back without pause for weeks, and Lynch still vividly recalled standing in chest-deep water off the coast of Dunkirk, rifle laid across his shoulders to keep it out of the surf, waiting for the next boat to take him back to Blighty while geysers of water leapt into the air all around him from explosions and strafing runs.

  So many men never made it off those bloody beaches, men like his squadmate Edwards, who’d reluctantly gone back with Lynch during the retreat from the battle at Arras to rescue their company commander, Captain Rourke, who’d been wounded by machine gun fire. Edwards and Lynch had retrieved Rourke and saved him from capture by the encroaching Germans, and for his actions, Lynch had been awarded the Military Medal upon returning to England. Rourke had lost his leg, but survived the evacuation, one of the last wounded men taken aboard ship before the decision was made to leave behind anyone who couldn’t move unassisted. Poor Edwards, mentioned in dispatches for his part in the rescue, died on the Dunkirk beach, killed by a dive-bomber an hour before boarding a transport home.

  It was during those last awful hours, cold and wet and under fire, helpless to do anything more than wait for rescue or death, that Lynch promised himself he’d get back into the fight as soon as possible. He’d felt such helpless rage, a dark, bloody rage as only an Irishman can conjure up within himself, and he knew it needed an outlet or it’d eat him up from the inside. When the opportunity presented itself to join Durnford-Slater’s 3 Commando, Lynch unhesitatingly volunteered, and when Lord Pembroke made his offer to send Lynch over the Channel to assist the French partisans, Lynch had instantly accepted.

  Lynch had believed at the time the Germans had a lot to answer for: Rourke’s leg, Edwards’ life, and all the other men in the Royal Irish Fusiliers he’d known and lost. Now, a year and a half later, that list was much longer, and much more personal.

  An hour after the men had set about their tasks, everything seemed as ready as it would be, given their overall poor state. The Desert Group men reported that all four trucks were in good working condition, although two of the spare tyres had been shredded by enemy fire. Some of the petrol and drinking water had been lost for similar reasons, and one of the three Vickers guns had been disabled, its receiver dented beyond repair by a bullet. That left three Lewis light machine guns and two Vickers, along with the various rifles, SMGs, and sidearms of the men. In addition, they had a collective three dozen Mills Bombs and a handful of German stick-grenades.

  The loss of petrol and water was troubling, especially given their distance from friendly resupply. The New Zealanders estimated they had just enough fuel to get back to Siwa, if the shortest route possible was taken. As for the water, every man was to be rationed four pints a day for all uses, down from the usual six. This was met with no small amount of grousing from the Commandos, who were still not as used to tight water rations as the LRDG men, but there was little choice in the matter. If they were careful, they’d have enough water to get them back to Siwa, with one full day’s rations to spare, just in case.

  By this time it was midday, and before lunch was prepared, the men took time to camouflage the trucks with the rolls of netting carried on each vehicle. Captain Eldred’s greatest worry at the moment was being spotted by that Storch, so he sent Lance Corporal White and Corporal Lawless up onto the ridge with field glasses to stand watch for aircraft.

  While dining on yet another meal of bully beef and biscuits - the latest in what now seemed an endless series of such meals - Lynch sought out Lieutenant Price.

  “Savoring another one of our sumptuous feasts, Tommy?” Price asked.

  “Oh, to be sure, just like Christmas dinner at the orphanage,” Lynch replied.

  Price gave a faint smile. “What’s on your mind, Corporal?”

  “I was wondering,” Lynch began, “why we’re spending an entire day tucked away in this ravine. Ought we to be escaping back into Egypt as soon as possible?”

  Price took a moment to deliberately masticate an especially stubborn biscuit before answering. “The captain and I have discussed this at some length. He feels, and I am in agreement, that we’re in significant danger of being found again by that recce plane if we try to arrow back across The Wire today. Come tomorrow, the offensive will begin, and all eyes will turn north, to where the fighting is taking place. Once that happens, the last thing on Jerry’s mind will be four trucks scarpering to the border.”
>
  Lynch thought for a moment about his officers’ logic. At first blush, the decision didn’t make sense; the longer they loitered behind enemy lines, the greater the risk of being rumbled. But the more he thought about it, the tactic reminded him of a crook who commits a robbery and runs a short distance, then finds a clever spot to hide and lay low while the bobbies run past, assuming the criminal is still on the run. Once the coast is clear, and the authorities have given up the chase, the crook emerges from hiding and escapes unnoticed. Lynch explained his line of thinking to Price, who chuckled good-naturedly.

  “We didn’t think of things in that light, but yes, that’s just about spot-on,” Price said. “Good to know there’s a career for myself and the captain as scofflaws if we survive.”

  ‘If we survive the war’, he says, Lynch thought to himself. We’ll be lucky to survive the next few days.

  As if to add insult to injury, he heard the droning of the Storch’s engine, once again flying overhead.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Outside The Airfield

  November 17th, 1500 Hours

  Steiner watched as one of the panzer crewmen shoveled spadefuls of sandy dirt onto the corpse of Major Kessler. The grizzled panzer commander had been struck in the side of the head by a bit of armour spalling and killed instantly. Steiner had examined the wound out of somewhat morbid curiosity; the thumb-sized hunk of metal had struck Kessler right behind the ear and buried itself deep inside the skull cavity. Steiner surmised that the terminal effect of the wound was probably little different than if Kessler had been shot in the side of the head with a pistol. More than likely, the Major never knew what killed him.

  “Alive and fighting one instant, gone the next,” Steiner said as he watched dirt cover Kessler’s face. “When I go, that’s how I want it to happen.”

  “Do you think the Tommies will be so accommodating, Hauptmann?” Gefreiter Werner asked, standing at Steiner’s side.