Lynch was, of course, happy for them, but his mind spun at the thought of love and marriage during such dark times. While it was apparent that Germany was no longer on the verge of invading Britain, and the battles now raging in North Africa seemed to favor the Eighth Army, ultimate victory - if it ever came - was still years away. The announcement two weeks ago that the United States was entering the war had been received with a great sigh of relief from most in the military, because although their war materiel was most appreciated, it was America’s large population that Lynch felt the war effort needed most. As handy as tanks and Thompsons were, they were just inert metal without men to use them, and Britain’s supply of manpower was dwindling at a frightful pace.
So, with nothing but war in his foreseeable future, Lynch could not imagine falling in love right now. Sure, he enjoyed a dance and a snog with a pretty young lass now and then when the men were given leave, but Lynch knew his fate was far from certain. Commando operations were, by their very nature, high-risk affairs, and he’d seen how quickly luck could turn sour against such small groups of men, no matter how great their motivation and training. Even the mission that’d brought them all the way to Scapa Flow, the Royal Navy’s base in the Orkney Islands, was by no means a guaranteed success. Lynch and the other Commandos had heard plenty of gossip, and they knew this was going to be at least as big as the Lofoten raid back in March, with the whole of 3 Commando taking part, as well as elements from several other Commandos, the Royal Navy, and even air support from the RAF. But one lone U-Boat in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Lynch would learn what it was like to try and swim back to Blighty in the middle of winter.
As the wedding mass continued, Lynch found himself going through the motions of ceremony, mostly taking his cues from Bouchard. Although he was born Irish Catholic, Lynch had been placed in an English-run orphanage as a small child, and while churchgoing had been a regular part of his upbringing, he’d never really found any attachment to the trappings of organized religion, either Protestant or Catholic. While some might say that battle makes all men prayerful, Lynch also knew many men who felt that no true and loving God would ever allow the horrors of modern war to come into being. In the end, Lynch left such theological debates to more learned and spiritual men. For him, it was enough to fight against an enemy that needed to be driven back, out of their conquered lands, and to avenge the friends he’d lost in France, and more recently, North Africa.
“...you may now kiss the bride!”
Lynch looked up as René and Marie kissed, embarrassed that he’d been so lost in thought he’d missed most of the wedding ceremony. As the onlookers cheered and clapped in happiness, Bouchard wept freely next to Lynch, the Frenchman wiping at his eyes again. Unsure of what to say, Lynch clapped a hand on Bouchard’s arm.
“Cheer up now! If it weren’t for you, they’d not have made it to England alive,” Lynch said.
Bouchard shook his head. “Non. I threw them against the Boche time and again, with no regard for their lives, only my hatred. You and your men are the reason we are here, and not rotting in some ditch in France. I only tried to kill them with my vengeance.”
Lynch didn’t know how to respond, so he just patted Bouchard on the arm again. “Well, they’re here now, so we must be happy for them while it lasts. It sounds like they might be going back across the Channel sometime soon.”
Bouchard’s lips twitched in a familiar smirk, and he adjusted his glasses. “They will not be alone. I am also part of...the organization responsible for their new profession.”
Lynch arched an eyebrow. “You’ll be going with them?”
“Oui. Only now, I work as a part of something greater. I feel more focused, less...maddened with rage,” Bouchard said.
Lynch smiled at the little Frenchman. “That’s good to hear now, so it is. Come - this celebration is about to move down the street and into a pub. I’ll buy you a pint, and we can drink to many more dead Germans in both our futures.”
Chapter 3
South Vaagso, Norway
December 22nd, 1200 Hours
Metz stood at attention in front of his Oberleutnant, a young officer named Bremer. The Oberleutnant sat for a moment and stared out the window to his right, watching as the townsfolk walked past the front of the Ulvesund Hotel, the occasional German soldier mixed in among them, all going about their daily routines.
Finally, Bremer turned back and looked at Metz. “You are certain none of the boys were injured?”
Metz nodded. “Ja, Oberleutnant. I was very careful, and fired well above their heads. At most, someone might have turned an ankle fleeing, or caught a splinter, but my bullets went nowhere near them.”
Bremer made a sour face. “No matter the direction your gun is pointing, you cannot control what a bullet does once it leaves the barrel. A bullet passing through a frozen tree trunk might exit at an odd angle, or break up and send fragments anywhere.”
“I understand, sir,” Metz replied. “But I felt I had to do something to keep the men from escalating the situation. If I hadn’t driven the boys away, one of my men might not have been so considerate.”
Bremer steepled his fingers under his chin. “Yes, about that. What is the status of your man Egger? Is he fit for duty?”
“His nose isn’t broken, just bloodied, and he has a split lip,” Metz answered. “His older brother was killed in North Africa a month ago, during the start of the latest British offensive. He has been...difficult to deal with since.”
“Are you telling me you are unable to control your squad?” Bremer asked.
“Sir, they are good men, but I think they’re a little restless, and the cold weather isn’t helping. The rest of the Wehrmacht is fighting the Tommies in Africa and the Ivans to the East. Guarding fish oil factories in Norway won’t provide many opportunities for glory, nor is it quite as entertaining for the men as occupation duty in France or Italy.”
“So, you’re saying they’d rather be fighting, or fraternizing with the local women.”
Metz shrugged. “Sir, they are young men, and without something to occupy their attention and engage their energies, their spirits will begin to rot.”
Bremer nodded, then after a moment’s thought, rapped his knuckles against the top of his wooden desk. “Very well. I will talk to Major Schroeder, but for now, I’m going to have you and the other section leaders work your men with greater vigor. Daily patrols, one squad per day in rotation, and I also want bayonet drill and marksmanship practice. We have more than sufficient ammunition for training, and it’ll give the men something to do.”
“An excellent idea, sir. I think it will go a long way towards improving the morale of the men,” Metz replied.
Bremer looked pensive for a moment. “Feldwebel, do you think the Schneeballschlacht was more than just a game to those boys? Did their behavior seem aggressive?”
Metz shook his head. “I think they were just being young boys, sir. Displays of rebelliousness are nothing new for men of that age.”
“And the rock?”
“Sir, that could have been a harmless mistake, scooped up with the snow. Easy enough to do when one is excited and not paying attention.”
“Except that the snow here is deep, and the ground long frozen,” Bremer replied. “You would have to dig down quite far to find a rock, and one heavy enough to injure a man would likely be noticed.”
“Are you concerned that this is a sign of something more dangerous, Oberleutnant?”
Bremer glanced out his window again. “These are a proud people, Metz, and they’ve not felt the horrors of war for well over a hundred years. Yes, they lost some men and ships in the last war, but that is nothing compared to having the boots of your enemy standing on your soil. I am not oblivious to the muttered comments behind our backs, or the snide remarks when they think we can’t hear. We know there are resistance cells in the wilder parts of the country, and when the Tommies attacked the refinery on the Lofoten Islands this past
spring, hundreds of Norwegians were eager to leave with them. All these people need is a sign of weakness on our part, and there will be blood in the streets.”
Metz gave a dismissive grunt. “We’ve got more than enough firepower here to keep the locals in line, sir. There may be a few old revolvers or hunting rifles hidden away that we missed in the sweeps, but there is no way they can contest us.”
Bremer gave his sergeant a hard look. “Of course they can’t stand against us, but we must ensure it never gets to that point. I am a soldier, and I follow orders, but I have no wish to line women and children up against walls and machine-gun them down. Mark my words, Feldwebel, that is precisely what we will be told to do if these folk openly rebel against us. Do you want to kill women and children?”
Metz’s face hardened. “Nein, Herr Oberleutnant. I do not.”
“Good. Then talk to your men, and make sure they understand. Remember, Metz - we are here to make sure the resources of this land support the war effort. If we fail in that duty, they will find another use for us, either in the desert, or along the Ostfront. Do you understand me?”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberleutnant,” Metz answered.
“Then you are dismissed,” Bremer said.
Metz saluted Bremer, who returned the gesture, and then the Feldwebel turned and walked to the door, taking his MP-38 from a nearby coat-hook and slinging it over his shoulder.
“One last thing, Feldwebel,” Bremer said behind Metz.
“Ja, Oberleutnant?” Metz replied, turning to look at Bremer. The young officer was again looking out the window.
“My great-uncle has friends within the OKW. He cannot be too obvious in the letters he writes to me, but he...hints at things from time to time.”
“Sir?”
Bremer turned and looked Metz in the eye. “The desert might be a terrible place, Feldwebel, but it is a paradise compared to the Ostfront.”
Chapter 4
Kirkwall, Scotland
December 22nd, 2100 Hours
Lynch sucked the foam from the top of another pint and turned from the bar, looking to find a seat. He’d just finished dancing with a very pretty French girl, a friend of Marie’s, and he’d spent the last hour on his feet dancing with every other woman in the pub, Marie included. Right now, Lynch’s feet ached in his rarely-worn dress shoes, and all the previous pints and drams consumed over the last several hours were hitting him hard.
Lynch sat down at corner table occupied by McTeague and Bowen. Both men had taken a seat only a little while ago, and the big Scotsman’s face was still flushed with the exertion of dancing. Bowen was continuously making eye contact with a petite, dark-haired Wren near the bar he’d been dancing with earlier in the evening. Seeing this, Lynch gave his friend a playful punch in the arm.
“I think she’s eager for a snog and a cuddle after the party, so she is,” Lynch said, a little too loudly.
Bowen shot him a dirty look. “You bloody lout, you’re as bad as Nelson.”
“You’re the one who should be as bad as Nelson, mate,” Lynch said, and pointed to the other side of the pub. Harry Nelson was tucked into a booth with a pair of curvaceous Wrens, no doubt entertaining the two young women with some highly exaggerated tale of daring and heroism.
Bowen looked at his squad-mate on the other side of the room and just shook his head. “Those birds would shag the postman for their daily mail. I prefer women of quality.”
“Listen ‘ere lad,” McTeague grumbled from behind a dark pint of ale. “Women of quality don’t muck about with the likes of us, shippin’ out to kick the Hun in the stones and maybe not comin’ back again. Those birds, they’re away back to London tomorrow, and the day after, they might be dead in a pile o’ rubble, thanks to a Jerry bomb.”
“Well aren’t you just full of Christmas cheer, Sergeant?” Bowen shot back, taking a long sip from his whisky.
“Go on now, mate,” Lynch told Bowen, “Buy that blackbird of yours a drink and wish her a happy holiday. We might all be dead in a week.”
Bowen stared into what was left of his Scotch for a moment, then tossed the remnant back before standing up, straightening his tie, and walking to the bar. The dark-haired Wren smiled at the wiry Commando, who pulled up a stool and sat down next to her.
“Ain’t love bloody grand?” Lynch asked McTeague.
“More like a bloody nuisance, long as a war’s on,” the Scotsman replied, taking a long draught from his ale. “Beer, on the other hand, is grand any time.”
Just then the musicians stopped to take a break and the dancers moved to find any available seats. Lynch watched Chenot and Marie kiss and part from each other - Marie towards the lavatory, while Chenot took a proffered glass of whisky from the bar and walked over to join Lynch and McTeague.
“Have a seat now, boyo,” Lynch gestured towards the empty chair. “Tell us how married life is treating you now.”
The Frenchman sat and took a long sip of the amber-coloured fluid in his glass, making a serene face as he swallowed. “I will never get used to the dark ale your people drink,” Chenot said. “But I must say, mon amis, this Scotch is very good, yes?”
“Uisce beatha,” Lynch replied. “The water of life, and Ireland’s gift to world, so it is.”
At this, McTeague sat up and glared at Lynch. “Listen ‘ere lad, stop spreading such lies, and in a Scottish pub, no less.”
“It’s true now, I know it!” Lynch exclaimed. “The Bushmills distillery is the oldest in the world. You lot have been playing catch-up to the fair folk of Erin ever since, so you have.”
“All a bunch of stuff and nonsense!” McTeague growled. “Besides, if the Irish invented it, then by God, the Scots perfected it!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Chenot cried, his hands raised pleadingly. “Can we not drink in peace? Besides, you are both drinking beer, no?”
The two Commandos looked at each other for a moment before they both let out a roar of laughter, toasting each other with a clink of pint glasses and a long draught of dark ale.
After the laughter had died down for a moment, Chenot turned to Lynch. “The English gentleman, Lord Pembroke? He is leaving soon, and wants to see you and I before he departs.”
Lynch nodded and stood up, leaving his drink at the table. “Guard my pint for me, would you, Sergeant?”
“I’ll keep an eye on it, lad,” McTeague replied.
Lynch followed Chenot to another corner of the pub, where the elderly Pembroke was just getting to his feet, his aide holding his coat, and the civilians from London were taking Pembroke’s cue to leave, standing and gathering their coats and hats. When he saw Lynch and Chenot, Pembroke gave the two men a wide smile.
“Ah, the groom and his best man, how splendid! It was a lovely little service, despite being Catholic, of course. Still and all, must show deference towards our French allies, isn’t that right, Corporal Lynch?”
Lynch nodded. “Of course, my lord. Absolutely wonderful service, so it was.”
Pembroke turned to the man holding his coat. “Jenkins, would you fetch the parcels from your briefcase? That’s a good fellow.”
Pembroke’s aide opened a leather briefcase and took out a pair of small packages wrapped in red paper, bound with green ribbons. After examining each for a moment, Pembroke’s aide handed one to Lynch and one to Chenot. The two men gave bemused looks to Pembroke, who smiled and clapped them both on the arm.
“A present for the groom, of course, and a gift for the best man as well,” Pembroke explained. “Unfortunately, arrangements for this ceremony have all been rather last-minute, and with you lads on the eve of another escapade, getting all this put together might have ruffled a few feathers. But thankfully, I do have a bit of influence at my disposal, and what good is having my old friend Winnie’s ear if I’m not able to bend it now and then?”
“Do you mean...Prime Minister Churchill, my lord?” Lynch asked.
Pembroke chuckled. “But of course, lad! Saw the elephant toget
her patrolling the veldt, been fast chums ever since. Now, hurry up and unwrap those presents, I’m out well past my bedtime. Older you get, the earlier you go to sleep, and the earlier you wake up. Damndest thing, really.”
Lynch and Chenot looked at each other for a moment before untying the ribbon and removing the wrapping paper, revealing a pair of brightly-polished wooden boxes. Inside, each of them found a pristine Browning nine-millimetre automatic, along with four magazines. The two men looked at Pembroke in wonder.
“I am something of a collector,” Pembroke explained, “and I bought a number of those when the Belgians began manufacturing them in ‘35. Wonderful arms, simply wonderful, and a damn shame the Boche have their hands on the plant now. But of course, they aren’t doing anyone much good sitting inside a cabinet in my gun room, so I’m giving this pair to you two fine fellows. Hopefully they’ll serve you well.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Lynch stammered out, “but this is too fine a gift for me. I can’t take something from your personal collection, I’m just a common soldier.”
“My dear Corporal Lynch,” Pembroke smiled at him. “It is the common soldier, performing acts of uncommon valor, who’ll win the war for us. Take the pistol, use it in defence of your country, and please, don’t drop it in the Channel?”
“Lord Pembroke, it is an honor, as always,” Chenot said, and gave the English gentleman a short bow.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 18
