Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  Dazedly, Miller looked at Nelson. “Prop me next to the firing lever, then load and aim.”

  Nelson shook his head. “I can’t work this bloody monster, that’s why I brought you along!”

  “You’ll do fine,” Miller mumbled through bloody lips. “Now, do as I say, or we’re both goners.”

  Nelson stumbled to his feet and gently propped Miller up against the eighty-eight’s pedestal, placing the wounded man’s hand on the firing lever. Then Nelson turned, searching for the shell he’d had in his hands. He saw it lying several feet away, picked it up, and staggered to the gun’s breech. He pushed the shell home, the breech nipping at his fingers as it closed automatically.

  “It’s loaded!” he shouted over the ringing in his ears. “Now what?”

  “Traverse the gun!” Miller gasped. “Lead just a touch and be light with the wheel, it’s more sensitive than you think.”

  Nelson peered through the eighty-eight’s gunsight. The panzer continued to circle them, and he spun the traversing wheel to bring the weapon about. A stream of MG fire arced towards him, the bullets hammering at the gun shield, and the panzer’s 75mm howitzer boomed once more. Nelson braced himself for the worst, but the shell flashed by, missing the gun shield by a hair’s breadth.

  He had only one chance. Nelson took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, to think of the great cannon as nothing more than a gigantic rifle, the panzer as nothing but a target. He spun the traversing wheel, bringing the sight around, matching the speed of the encircling panzer and placing the aim-point right above the lead sprocket wheel.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  The eighty-eight roared, the cannon slamming back in recoil. Nelson stayed on the sights, knowing the next few seconds meant his life or death and there was no use not watching the show. The shell crossed the distance from gun to tank in a split second, and the shell struck a third of the way back along the top of the treads. There was a flash as the high-explosive shell detonated upon impact, and bits of twisted metal spun through the smoke and dust. When the tank was visible again, Nelson saw it had slewed around, the right-hand track completely mangled, flames licking from a rent in the hull. A lone figure struggled out of the turret hatch, his legs aflame. The German tumbled down off the side of the panzer’s hull and into the sand, where he feebly rolled around, putting out the flames.

  Nelson turned away from the gun sight. “Miller, you keen devil! We got them all!”

  There was no reply from the gunner. Nelson pointed the electric torch at Miller’s motionless form, and saw the man’s eyes staring, unblinking, his hand still gripping the firing lever.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Airfield

  November 18th, 0230 Hours

  The last of the gunfire had stopped by the time Nelson carried Miller’s body back to where the tankers were congregated. A handful of German prisoners knelt in the sand, hands behind their heads, guarded by Herring and several other men with leveled rifles. Among the German prisoners was the Luftwaffe officer who’d been with Steiner when he’d first addressed the British prisoners. One of the British tankers was binding the German officer’s leg with a battle dressing as blood seeped through from a bullet wound in the thigh.

  Chalmers, standing nearby and talking with Herring, saw Nelson approach. By the light of the burning panzers, Nelson saw the officer’s look of sorrow when he realized what Nelson carried.

  “Oh, blast it all,” Chalmers cursed. “The poor fellow.”

  “He brewed up three of ‘em,” Nelson said, as he lowered Miller’s body to the ground at Chalmers’ feet. “The big one got him with a shell, but he talked me through killing the last panzer. He even managed to fire the cannon before he died.”

  Chalmers knelt next to his gunner’s body and laid a hand on Miller’s chest for a moment. “When our tank was knocked out, he was willing to fight to the end with nothing more than a Bren. The panzer that killed him, it knocked us out and captured us this morning.”

  “The surviving Jerries are coming in,” Herring called out.

  Nelson turned. Several figures approached from the direction of the last two panzers, moving unsteadily with hands raised above their heads. Two of the men supported a third, who stumbled along with burned legs too weak to bear his weight.

  Chalmers and Nelson stood, and along with the rest of the British, waited in silence, unmoving, until the four Germans all but collapsed at their feet. The men were blackened and scorched, their faces smeared with oil and soot. The man with the burned legs, a junior officer by his insignia, looked up at Chalmers with an agonized expression.

  “Kameraden,” the German whispered. “Nicht schiessen!”

  Chalmers stared at the German, his eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. He slowly pointed at Miller’s body.

  “My Kameraden,” Chalmers whispered. He pointed towards the eighty-eight at the other end of the airfield, then at Nelson, and back to Miller. “Schiessen.”

  The German officer swallowed, then shook his head. “Nicht schiessen, bitte. Es ist Krieg.”

  Nelson unslung his MP-40 and held it out to Chalmers. “Up to you, sir. He was your mate.”

  Chalmers reached out for the weapon, but as he touched it, he drew his hand away and shook his head.

  “No, Corporal, I won’t do that. It was a clean fight. The poor chap is right, it’s just war. At least, I think that’s what the blighter said.”

  The burned German let out a gasp of relief and nodded thanks. One of the other British tankers approached, holding a German medical kit.

  “Shall I attend to his burns, sir?” the tanker asked.

  Chalmers nodded. “Yes, do what you can for him, thanks.”

  Just then, there were a couple of shouts from off to the east, and everyone turned, weapons brought up to bear. Nelson heard voices with familiar accents calling out, asking permission to approach the airfield.

  “Sounds like the Kiwis from Desert Group!” he exclaimed.

  Out of the darkness, six men emerged. Nelson recognized two of them as Captain Clarke and one of his New Zealanders. The other four were Sergeant Peabody and three of the Commandos from his squad.

  Chalmers stepped forward and saluted Clarke. “Lieutenant Chalmers, sir. Ranking officer here. We’re all that’s left of Major Meade’s squadron.”

  Clarke returned Chalmers’ salute, then noticed Nelson and Herring. “You lads, did your captain or lieutenant survive the action?”

  Nelson nodded. “They scarpered to the west after being attacked by some Jerry armoured cars. Me and Herring here, and our Kiwi - beg pardon sir - we drew fire to give the others time to leg it. Lost the truck and your man, and we wound up in the bag, at least until we cut ourselves loose and broke out this lot.”

  Clark nodded, his expression indicating how impressed he was at their actions. “Our flanking element ran smack into the panzers in that hidden ravine. Captain Moody was killed almost immediately, his other armoured cars and the two lead trucks destroyed as well. But the ravine was so narrow, once the other vehicles were destroyed, the smoke and debris meant we could back out and retreat. We laid up a few miles away, but when we heard all the shooting, we decided to take the chance and come in, thinking Meade’s lads had merely fallen back and come in under cover of darkness. But now, it looks like that wasn’t the case.”

  Over the next several minutes, Nelson and Chalmers filled Clarke in on what had happened over the course of the day, as well as the escape and ensuing battle that night. When their debrief was complete, Clarke looked equal parts horrified at the British losses from the initial attack, and amazed at the audacity with which Nelson and Herring had executed their plan.

  “Well lads,” Clarke said after a moment’s reflection, “all that’s left is finding Eldred, Price, and the other survivors, and hoping Steiner doesn’t get to them first.”

  “He’s got a Panzer IV and three armoured cars,” Chalmers cautioned. “We’ve got no armour to counter them.”

&nbs
p; “What about that eighty-eight?” Sergeant Peabody asked. “That’d get the job done right bloody quick.”

  Nelson shook his head. “The half-track didn’t look like it had moved in months, and even if it worked, it’d be too bloody slow. That gun is a right monster.”

  “What if we tried to tow it with the remaining Jerry lorries?” Chalmers asked.

  Nelson frowned. “Which lorries?”

  “Of course,” Chalmers said. “You were laid out when they brought you back. Those light anti-tank guns, the ones you lot were taking on to the west out there, they were towed by Jerry lorries. You were carried here in one when they brought the AT guns back in. We saw Steiner take off with one of them, but there are others parked over by the panzer leaguer.”

  A few minutes later, Chalmers, Clarke, Peabody, and Nelson were examining the Krupp-Protze transports. Still hooked up to each was a Pak 36 anti-tank gun. A fourth gun, blackened and damaged, sat to the side. Nelson shook his head.

  “The half-track back there is a right monster, and you need something that big to tow that great bloody cannon. These trucks look a bit weedy for that kind of job.” He turned and looked to Chalmers. “These guns, how good are they?”

  “Good enough to brew up a Crusader at combat ranges,” he replied. “They aren’t much different than the two-pounders on our tanks. Get them close, especially with a flank or rear shot, and they’ll do a proper job on that Panzer IV.”

  “The question is,” Peabody said, “can we get close enough? If we’re approaching in nothing but lorries and recce trucks, a bloody MG can rip us apart.”

  Clarke smiled. “Why would they shoot at their own vehicles? I think with a little prestidigitation, we can get in close before we’re rumbled.”

  “But how do we know where Eldred and the others are?” Chalmers asked.

  Nelson remembered the wounded Luftwaffe officer among the German prisoners. He smiled.

  “No worries about that one,” Nelson replied. “Leave it to me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Ravine

  November 18Th, 0600 Hours

  The first howitzer shell arced in and detonated twenty yards to Lynch’s right. A few bits of shrapnel hissed overhead, while sand and pulverized rock fragments fell around him like rain. He squinted into the early-morning sun and spotted the Panzer IV a thousand yards away. The muzzle lit up with flame and smoke again, and another shell arced in, this one detonating well behind and to the left.

  Lynch turned to Lance Corporal White, who was serving as his loader. “Not much we can do about that beast from here now, is there?”

  White nodded and peered through a pair of field glasses. “The armoured cars are swinging to the south. I think they’re going to try and flank us. Hold on, they’re-”

  The impacts of 20mm cannon shells all around them were followed a moment later by the sound of the autocannons’ reports. After a few seconds, the barrage subsided, only to be replaced by the patter of dozens of bullets smacking into the sand and rock. A 7.92mm slug thwacked into a stone a yard from Lynch’s left elbow, and a mashed fragment of copper and lead bounced onto the back of his hand, still warm enough to make him shake it away like it was a biting insect.

  Another howitzer shell impacted to Lynch’s left, this one on the other side of the narrow ravine. Lynch looked over there and saw Bowen and Johnson, partially obscured by the debris still hanging in the air, trying to burrow themselves even deeper into their shallow two-man foxhole. Lynch’s own fighting position was barely a foot deep and just long enough for him to fit inside while prone, and White’s wasn’t much better. The sand around them was soft enough, but it was only a few inches deep. Underneath, there was a lot of dense gravel and hard stone that had to be dug through, usually with the use of a pick to pry the mixture loose before shoveling it away.

  As a combination of howitzer shells, autocannon rounds, and machine gun bullets continued to rain down around them, White looked to Lynch. “This is just to pin us down. They’ve got to be moving infantry against us.”

  Lynch nodded. “Aye, to be sure. But where might they be now?”

  Just then, a single bullet smacked into the ground in front of them, and both men - combat veterans more than familiar with the behavior of ricochets - realized the shot came from their far right.

  “Well, there we go,” White muttered.

  The two men shifted in their fighting positions. Lynch left the Boys anti-tank rifle where it sat facing the east, and picked up his trusty Thompson. White readied his own Thompson, and the two of them searched the terrain to their south. Soon enough, a German exposed himself just long enough to fire a rifle, the bullet cracking between the two Commandos. Lynch aimed and fired a short burst from his Thompson, but the figure was gone before the first bullets landed.

  “This is sure to be bad,” Lynch said.

  “If we break, there’s no cover, and we’ll be taking fire from that damn panzer and those cars the whole time,” White replied.

  To the south, there was more movement, and the first burst from an MG-34 chopped up the sand in front of their fighting positions.

  “They’re going to fire and manoeuvre until they’re right on top of us!” White shouted over the sound of another howitzer shell exploding nearby.

  The crack of a Lee-Enfield to the north was immediately followed by a figure to the south flinging up their arms from the impact of a bullet. Both men turned and looked behind them. A slight puff of dust was rising from Bowen’s position, and a second shot passed over their heads.

  “If we’re going to move, we’ve got to move now,” Lynch said.

  White nodded. Lynch flashed hand signals to Bowen and Johnson, who made a gesture in acknowledgment. A third bullet cracked past overhead, and there was a shout of alarm from the south. Lynch and White jumped up, each man grabbing one end of the Boys rifle, and they took off to the west, running almost parallel to the ravine. Rifle and machine gun bullets snapped all around them, and another shell exploded near the fighting positions they’d just abandoned, but the two men covered fifty yards before skidding behind a small outcropping of rock near the ravine’s edge.

  White leaned out from behind their cover and cut loose with a full magazine from his Thompson, driving back the German infantry who’d tried to use the Commandos’ retreat as an opportunity to advance. Bullets forced him to duck back and as he reloaded, panting from their run and the effort of carrying the Boys rifle, he nodded towards the west.

  “Get that bloody great rifle ready. I saw those cars swinging around. They’re going to try and cut off our retreat.”

  Lynch cursed. The four men along the ridgeline had agreed to stay back and delay any German advance while the other three trucks pushed west through the ravine. One truck remained, almost directly below where they now were, but if they let the armoured cars get past, the Germans would have both ends of the ravine bottled up.

  Seating the Boys rifle properly on its bipod, Lynch went prone and squirmed to the right, edging the muzzle of the rifle around the outcropping.

  “Keep those bloody Jerries off me arse now,” he muttered.

  Behind him, White fired off a few short bursts. “Easier said than done. They’re like jerobas, hopping up and down behind every blasted rock.”

  A moment later, one of the smaller, four-wheeled armoured cars came into view. Although the range was about three hundred yards, Lynch took the shot anyway, as the car was moving slowly and it was a flank shot. He didn’t see whether his shot had any effect or not, so Lynch fired twice more, each shot hammering his shoulder more painfully than the last. He hadn’t had time to stuff a pair of woolen socks into his battledress as padding against the recoil, and the Boys rifle kicked like an angry mule.

  Two more shots emptied the Boys’ five-round magazine, and Lynch ripped it away, swearing as he moved his right arm, shoulder throbbing. But the armoured car was now stationary, a thin curl of smoke rising from its engine compartment. Further on, the
other two cars swiveled their turrets and returned fire, driving Lynch back behind cover as cannon shells punched massive trenches in the sand and struck the rock outcropping with punishing force.

  “They’re bloody well mad at you now, mate!” White laughed as he reloaded again. Lynch saw a small pile of spent magazines near the man’s feet.

  “Jerries still pressing us?” Lynch asked.

  “If it wasn’t for this Thompson and Rhys over there trying to ventilate their uniforms, you’d have a Boche bayonet up yer bum right now,” White replied.

  “We better get to the truck, because if we don’t get out of here, that bloody great steel monster’s going to climb up the rise, or make its way into the ravine, and then one way or another, we’re done for,” Lynch said.

  Across the ravine, Lynch saw Bowen duck down to reload, while Johnson fired a long burst from a plundered MP-40, raking fire back and forth towards the Germans to the south. As Lynch watched, a shell burst a few feet from Johnson, and when the debris settled, the redheaded spotter was sprawled half out of the foxhole, the machine pistol lying several feet from his hands.

  “Bastards! Johnson’s been hit!” Lynch cried.

  White turned from firing, and they both saw Bowen pulling Johnson down into cover. A second shell landed a few yards from the first, kicking a plume of shattered rock and sand into the air.

  “This isn’t good!” White shouted over the noise.

  “Bowen’s not going to be able to get Johnson down the ravine wall if he’s wounded,” Lynch replied, choosing not to think the spotter might have been killed.

  Chancing a peek around the outcropping, Lynch saw the two operational armoured cars continuing on towards the end of the ravine, now well out of effective range of the Boys rifle, but also well beyond bothering to deal with two enemy infantrymen to their rear. In looking to the east, he no longer saw the panzer; it was below his line of sight, close to the bottom of the rise. Towards the horizon, however, Lynch detected plumes of dust coming towards them.