Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  Nelson and Herring turned and looked at each other for a long moment. Nelson knew his own opinion on the matter, but the wiry rifleman was always difficult to read, and the rumor amongst the men was that Herring was some kind of knife-man before the war, an underworld murderer for hire. Nelson had always taken such rumors with a grain of salt, but you never knew another man’s mettle until it was bent to the breaking point.

  “Well?” Nelson asked Herring. “What’ll it be, mate?”

  Herring turned to the German. “How’s about you get stuffed, you poncy git?”

  For the second time that evening, the officer stood goggle-eyed, shocked by Herring’s answer, before he threw his head back and laughed out loud.

  “You English never disappoint me!” he said. “If you were Italians or Frenchmen, I think you might have told me what you knew, or at least, made up some fiction to dangle before me as bait. But no, you throw insults instead.”

  “See?” Nelson said with a smile. “We’ve got our reputation to uphold. Matter of honor and all that.”

  The German just shook his head. “I hope your little jest is worth the lives of your countrymen.” He walked to the tent flap and pulled it aside, gesturing towards the leaguered panzers and armoured cars. “I’m going to take my three scout cars and one of those great big Panzer IVs with me this afternoon. We’re going to go and find your friends, and I’m going to shell them to bits with that seventy-five millimetre howitzer. I’ll regret killing them, for I am sure they are all good men. But I cannot leave them free to travel about the desert when I don’t know the purpose behind your mission.”

  The officer turned to the two guards and said something in their native tongue. The two men saluted, and one moved to exit the tent, while the other watched Nelson and Herring, clearly tasked with keeping an eye on the two prisoners. The officer stepped halfway out of the tent, then turned back to look at his captives one last time.

  “The blood of those men will be on your hands, gentlemen. Not mine. Auf wiedersehen.”

  With that, the officer and one of his men departed the tent. The lone guard left behind shifted his feet and covered Nelson and Herring with the muzzle of his machine pistol. A moment later, the second soldier returned with two lengths of rope, and he bound Nelson and Herring to their chairs while the other man covered them.

  Having secured their prisoners, the two soldiers gave their captives one last look before stepping outside the tent. A moment later, the smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the tent flap.

  “I could bloody well use a fag right now,” Nelson grumbled.

  Herring leaned as close to Nelson as he could without falling over. “Watch what you say,” he whispered. “The taller Jerry speaks English.”

  Nelson thought for a moment. “Right, that’s good to remember. Now, can you get to your sticker?”

  “No. We’ll have to figure that out when the time is right,” Herring whispered.

  Nelson looked around the tent. There wasn’t anything except for them and their chairs. “We bloody well better. Can’t let that smug Jerry wanker get to Tommy and Rhys and the other lads.”

  Herring looked Nelson in the eye. “When night comes, we’ll make our move.”

  “You’re a right scary bastard, you know that?” Nelson asked.

  “That’s what your mum says when I pay her a visit,” Herring whispered with a grin.

  Nelson scowled. “Tosser.”

  After a moment’s silence, the two men shifted in their wooden camp chairs, trying to find a comfortable position, and began their wait until dark, while outside, the sound of engines starting carried to them from the panzer leaguer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thirty Kilometres South-West Of The Airfield

  November 17th, 1800 Hours

  Steiner peered through his field glasses at the terrain before him. A kilometre away, the desert floor gently rose about twenty metres before levelling out again. From this distance, a thin crack in the rise was visible, probably only a handful of metres wide, but Steiner knew it was his quarry’s hiding place. The tyre tracks - visible all around them - pointed right at the split, and it was the perfect place to hide from aerial observation.

  It was also a dangerous place to try and take by force. A small contingent of stout-hearted defenders could choke such a narrow passage with their attackers’ bodies, all the while falling back whenever pressed too hard. Although he had the clear advantage in firepower, Steiner didn’t want to underestimate his enemy again. Furthermore, while he had all three armoured cars and the Panzer IV with him, he’d only been able to justify “borrowing” Hasek’s ten-man security force. Even though he had seniority over Hasek, Steiner was still the outsider, and there was no quicker way to earn the enmity of those under your command than usurping their authority with no greater justification than that authority alone.

  Steiner lowered his field glasses and looked around him. To his left, the Panzer IV’s commander, a Feldwebel named Mueller, looked at him. Mueller’s tank had been immobilized with a shredded track near the end of the battle that morning, and although Steiner had been reluctant to trust the repair job and take Mueller’s panzer with him, its commander had insisted. Mueller’s pride had suffered more than his panzer, and Steiner knew the man wanted to take it out on any British left ready to offer up a fight.

  “Well, Hauptmann? What are your orders?” Mueller asked.

  Steiner climbed out of the SdKfz 232’s turret hatch and made his way down over the car’s hull. He gestured for Mueller to wait, then walked back to the six-wheeled Krupp-Protze cargo truck at the back of their column. The infantry squad’s leader, an old veteran named Huber, stood up and saluted.

  “Hauptmann, your orders?” Huber asked.

  “I want you to take your squad and advance to the cleft in the rise. Confirm that the tracks lead directly into the cleft, and look for signs of defence. Then, split your squad into two elements and move up the rise, then patrol along the top of the ravine.”

  Huber nodded. “What kind of resistance do you expect we’re facing?”

  “There should only be about a dozen men,” Steiner answered. “But those desert reconnaissance trucks were well-armed with machine guns. Be careful and look for strong points that might conceal dismounted MGs. I’ll send one of the cars with you, and the rest of us will follow a few hundred metres back.”

  Huber saluted and spoke to the driver. A few seconds later, the Krupp-Protze began to move towards the rise. Steiner gestured towards the commander of the first SdKfz 222, indicating that he should move forward with the infantry. The commander, one of his Brandenburgers, nodded and shouted an order down into the crew compartment before charging his 20mm autocannon.

  Steiner climbed back into his own armoured car and watched the two vehicles depart. “Driver, follow two hundred metres back,” he ordered.

  The five vehicles moved across the desert at a cautious pace. Steiner wasn’t especially worried, but they were terribly exposed out here, and until he’d dealt with these Commandos, he was going to be on edge. Glancing to the west, Steiner realized the cover of night was fast approaching. He didn’t fancy navigating a narrow ravine in the dark and under fire.

  The two lead vehicles were a half-kilometre from the cleft when Steiner heard the distant crack of a high-powered rifle. Raising his field glasses, he scanned the terrain ahead of him and saw nothing, but there was another shot, this one from a heavier-calibre weapon. He turned and focused on the truck carrying the infantry squad, and saw the ten men bailing out the back of the Krupp-Protze, the truck unmoving. A second later, the deep, slow thumpthumpthump of the lead armoured car’s autocannon reached his ears, and Steiner saw the cloud of dust rising into the air in front of the car as the weapon’s immense blast stirred the sand around it.

  There was a pang of metal striking metal to his left, and Steiner looked down to see a bright streak of smeared copper and lead on the top of the turret by his elbow.

  Snip
er!

  Dropping into the turret, Steiner closed the hatch just as a second round ricocheted away inches from his hand. Werner, serving as his gunner, looked up at Steiner in surprise.

  “Someone is shooting at us!” Werner exclaimed.

  “Obviously, you Dummkopf. Now lay down some covering fire!”

  “Where? I have no target!” Werner asked.

  “He’s got to be somewhere along the ridge,” Steiner snarled. “Get on the MG and lay a belt’s worth down along the right-hand side!”

  Steiner keyed his radio mic. “All units. Lay down covering fire. Car Three, suppress the left-hand ridgeline. Mueller, bracket the cleft with high-explosive.”

  For the next few seconds, the air was filled with the sounds of cannons and machine guns. Steiner peered through the vision blocks and observed the detonations of autocannon and howitzer shells.

  He picked up his microphone again. “Mueller, move up and provide shelter to Huber’s squad. The truck must be immobilized, so we’ll have to pull them back out of range.”

  A much heavier impact rang through the hull, and Steiner looked over to see a noticeable dent about the size of his thumb in the armour plate. He placed his hand gently on the bulge, feeling the heat of the distressed metal.

  “Anti-tank gun?” Werner asked.

  Steiner shook his head. “At this range, even a light gun would penetrate us. That was one of their heavy rifles, the ones they used on our Italian cars. We’re out of their effective range, but they can still tear up the transport, and rip a man in half.”

  Peering through the vision blocks, Steiner watched the Panzer IV roll up alongside the Krupp-Protze. As soon as the panzer stopped, the ten infantrymen scuttled from behind their transport and clustered behind the larger armoured vehicle. Using his field glasses, Steiner watched as the panzer began to reverse slowly, the infantry staying a pace or two ahead of its progress, heads down and shoulders hunched, hoping to avoid drawing attention from the British sniper. All the while, the three armoured cars fired short bursts of machine gun and cannon fire, trying to suppress the hidden shooters.

  “We’ll pull back to fifteen hundred metres away from the rise,” Steiner ordered over the wireless. “Cease fire, we’re just wasting ammunition.”

  Minutes later, Steiner crawled out of his car’s side hatch. He’d arranged the panzer and his much larger armoured car so they presented their flank to the rise, offering maximum protection to anyone disembarked. The infantry were kneeling next to the panzer, the men having a smoke and looking disgruntled.

  “What happened?” Steiner asked Huber.

  The infantry sergeant made a sour face. “The sniper took out the driver, killed him instantly. Then the engine block took several hits from something much heavier.”

  “One of their anti-tank rifles,” Steiner said.

  “The transport is dead, whatever they hit it with,” Huber replied. “I saw oil puddling underneath the engine while we were in cover.”

  “Scheisse,” Steiner muttered, then looked to the horizon. The sun would be down within the hour, not enough time to deal with the situation.

  “Since the day is almost over, we’ll bivouac here for the night,” Steiner told the men around him. “Well before dawn, Huber’s squad will move ahead and close the distance, swinging wide in a flanking manoeuvre before slipping up that rise. When the sun comes up, we’ll use the panzer’s howitzer and the car’s MGs to keep their heads down. They’ll be so busy avoiding that incoming fire, Huber and his men will be able to get close and eliminate the snipers before they can recover. Once the top of the rise is cleared, we’ll move the panzer into the ravine and shell anything that moves, while the infantry provide cover from up above, and the cars circle around and press on to cut off any chance of escape.”

  The men around him nodded, and with that, Steiner dismissed the men to go about setting up camp for the night. He caught Huber’s attention.

  “I know these bastards,” Steiner said in a low voice. “Make sure the sentries work in teams, keep them close, and above all, remain vigilant. These men, they aren’t afraid of the dark.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Airfield

  November 18th, 0100 Hours

  After being fed an evening meal and taken to the latrine, Nelson and Herring were placed back inside their tent by two guards. This time, instead of sitting on chairs, they were tied back-to-back, bound to the wooden support pole in the center of the tent. It was certainly more comfortable than trying to sleep in a hard wooden camp chair all night, but it also meant Herring’s switch-knife, their only hope of escape, was further out of Nelson’s reach.

  The two men agreed to sleep in shifts, and after the guards changed late into the night, Nelson waited a full hour before gently nudging Herring awake with his shoulder.

  “It’s time, mate,” Nelson whispered.

  “I need to get higher in order to bend my leg around, so I can move my foot close enough for you to reach,” Herring replied.

  “Brace yourself against the tent pole, and I’ll do the same. Then we’ll push with our legs and raise ourselves up,” Nelson explained.

  “You’re twice my size, you’ll topple the bloody tent!”

  “Guess you’ll just have to put your sodding back into it, eh wot? C’mon now, on the count of three.”

  Seconds later, the two men strained, and slowly - painfully slowly - they began to inch their way up the tent pole. Their wrists soon began to bleed from the rough fibres of their bindings digging in, and their hands grew slippery with blood as they tried to maintain a grip on the wooden pole. Despite the cold of the desert night, sweat poured down their faces and their arms, chilling the men as it dried, while making their grip that much more precarious. Their heels dug furrows in the sandy floor, as each man fought against gravity and their awkward position. Several times, the tent pole swayed dangerously, and the men froze as the tent fabric pulled taut and tugged against the other poles and stays. If the Germans outside the tent saw it move, they’d come in and investigate, and the jig would be up.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the two men reached a crouching position, and with a grunt of pain, Herring managed to bend and twist his leg behind him. Slowly, the two men lowered themselves back down, until Herring was kneeling and Nelson was seated behind him. Herring pushed his foot back and towards Nelson’s hands.

  “Up to you now,” Herring whispered. “Try not to bloody hamstring me with my own blade.”

  Nelson’s fingers crawled up Herring’s calf, until they reached the top of his high woolen sock. He pulled the material down with frustrating slowness, his hand cramping from the awkward angle, fingers sticky with drying blood. Cursing at his bindings, Nelson grimaced against the pain as he rotated his wrist back and forth hard against the rope, causing more blood to flow and providing just enough lubrication to add the necessary freedom to his movements.

  At last, Nelson’s fingers made contact with the smooth metal of the switch-knife. Carefully, he pulled the knife free from the soft chamois leather of Herring’s ankle sheath. Turning the knife in his hands, Nelson pointed the weapon in what he hoped was the right direction and engaged the spring release. The knife snapped open with a faint click, and Herring jerked against his bindings.

  “You clumsy berk, you got my leg!” Herring whispered.

  “Shut your gob and let me work here,” Nelson shot back.

  It took another ten minutes for Nelson to angle the knife just right, and slowly, clumsily, saw through the bindings around Herring’s wrists. More than once he slipped and jabbed or nicked Herring’s forearms, but the two men remained silent. Finally, the last of the rope fibres parted, and Herring’s hands were free. After a few more minutes of work, he escaped from the other bindings holding him to the tent pole, and with a soft grunt of pain, Herring eased himself out of the awkward position and stood up straight at last, massaging circulation back into his limbs and examining the cuts and abrasions along his arms.<
br />
  “Last time I count on you to do any clever work with a knife. Carved me up like a Christmas ham,” Herring muttered.

  “Don’t just bloody stand there whining about a few scratches,” Nelson growled. “Cut me loose!”

  Herring bent down and took his knife from Nelson’s bloody hand, and after scrubbing the weapon clean with a handful of sand, he sliced through his squadmate’s bindings with a few deft moves. Nelson rolled onto his side and stood, cursing softly and rubbing his backside.

  “Me bum’s asleep,” he whispered.

  “Now who’s whining?” Herring replied.

  The two men spent a couple of minutes just stretching and limbering up their bodies, with eyes always glued to the tent flaps leading outside. Once they were sufficiently ready, Nelson reached inside his undershirt and pulled out a leather thong. At the end, a pair of vicious-looking brass knuckles dangled. Nelson snapped the leather with a sharp tug, then slipped the weapons over his fingers, his hands forming fists as he tested the fit. When he was satisfied, Nelson nodded.

  Working silently, Herring dropped down to the ground and crawled to the edge of the tent. He lifted the bottom edge of the tent fabric and peered out for a few seconds, then shifted to another position, eventually making his way all around the perimeter of the tent. Finally, he stood up and approached Nelson, bringing his mouth close to Nelson’s ear as he whispered.

  “There’s two guards right outside the tent. I don’t see any lights or movement, but there’s just enough moonlight to tell we’re at one end of the installation, furthest from the Jerry armour. We’re maybe a hundred yards from the other prisoners, but I can’t be sure from here.”