Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, boys!” Pembroke exclaimed, as his aide helped him into his greatcoat. “And be sure to kill a few of those bloody Huns for the rest of us!”

  With that, Pembroke and his aide, along with the other Londoners, made their way to the pub’s door and exited in a blast of frigid North Atlantic air.

  “Sometimes I think that old man is positively mad,” Lynch muttered.

  Bouchard walked over from the bar holding a glass of Cognac in his hand, his gait a bit unsteady. “What did the Englishman give you?” he asked.

  Lynch and Chenot showed Bouchard the pistols inside their cases. Bouchard smirked, and pulled aside his suit jacket to show the butt of another Browning hanging in a shoulder holster. “I still have the pistol taken from that savage Boche in Merlimont. Much better to use the weapons of your enemies against them.”

  “Didn’t I give you that when I saved your arse back in Calais?” Lynch asked with a grin.

  Bouchard frowned and wobbled slightly on his feet, before taking a drink from his glass. “Oui, and now that you have your own, do not expect this one to be returned.”

  Lynch and Chenot laughed, and the three men walked back to the table where McTeague still sat, a glass of whisky in his hand, and a partially-emptied bottle of Balvenie on the table next to several other clean glasses. Lynch’s beer was nowhere to be found.

  “I told the barkeeper to leave the bottle and a few glasses for me and my mates,” McTeague explained.

  “Where’s my pint?” Lynch demanded.

  “Sorry lad, casualty of war,” McTeague replied. “That’s why I decided to get a whole bottle of the good stuff.”

  The three men sat down, and Lynch poured himself and Chenot a glass apiece. Lynch raised his glass and looked at the men at the table.

  “Alright boyos, to Lord Pembroke - he might be bloody peculiar, but I’m glad to have him on our side. Cheers!”

  They each took a drink and sat in silence for a moment, before McTeague gave the Frenchmen a speculative look.

  “That bloody nobleman, is he the man in charge of ye?” McTeague asked.

  Bouchard shook his head. “He is not, but he plays a large part in their affairs. A patron, you might say. It was he who arranged for the three of us to join...ah, to join the war effort again, in a different way.”

  “Sounds very cloak-and-dagger, so it does. Very hush-hush,” Lynch said.

  Chenot nodded. “The Englishman you brought into Calais with you, the man Smythe, he works for the people who have been training us. Spies, assassins, saboteurs - many lives risked to save the world from the Boche.”

  “Death to the Boche!” Bouchard exclaimed, raising his glass quickly and spilling Cognac down his fingers. The other three men raised their glasses and returned the toast.

  “Death to the Boche!”

  Chapter 5

  Outside Of South Vaagso, Norway

  December 23Rd, 900 Hours

  Feldwebel Metz stood behind his squad’s MG-34 machine-gun team as they sent short bursts of bullets downrange. The squad’s designated ammunition carrier knelt behind the assistant machine gunner, ready to pass forward more ammunition or one of the MG-34’s spare barrels. The squad’s six riflemen were spread out to both flanks, each a few paces from the other, firing their Mauser rifles from the kneeling position. Normally Metz would have them shooting while prone, but the deep snow around them made bracing their rifles in that position especially difficult.

  Metz used his binoculars to observe the impact of his squad’s fire downrange, geysers of snow leaping up into the air as bullets impacted on and around targets two hundred metres away. Normally the men would be shooting at even greater ranges, but Metz knew that if they ever had to fight here in Vaagso, the engagement distances would be comparatively short, limited either by the heavy forests they patrolled through, or the built-up nature of South Vaagso itself, if the town was ever attacked from the sea. Metz knew that occasions where a rifle or machinegun could be used to its full effective range were rather uncommon. No doubt in Africa or on the Russian steppe, his fellow soldiers were shooting at enemies five, six, or maybe even a thousand metres or more away, but that was never going to happen here.

  And, Metz reflected, far more important than the accuracy of his squad’s rifle fire was the effectiveness of their light machine gun. The MG-34 was, Metz believed, the best machine gun of its type in the world, and when manned and used properly, it was devastating. Whole squads of enemy infantry could be cut down in seconds, soft-skinned vehicles destroyed, even planes shot out of the sky if one was lucky enough. The full-powered 7.92mm round could kill at over a kilometre, and had enough penetration at combat ranges to tear through a tree trunk or shatter a brick wall. The MG-34 was more capable of sustained fire than the Tommy’s Bren gun, and not only lighter but with almost twice the rate of fire of their water-cooled Vickers. It was truly a feat of engineering, and although it required careful maintenance and was complicated in its design and manufacture, it gave the German soldier a great advantage against his enemies.

  Right now, Metz had his squad practicing a contact drill against an enemy infantry unit. The machine gun swept the enemy position with half-second bursts of six or seven shots, while the riflemen provided added firepower and security to the MG team, ensuring that the opposing force did not work their way around the machine gun’s arc of fire and attack from the flank. Even if the squad’s firepower did not entirely wipe out their enemy, it pinned them in place, either through causing casualties or through suppressing fire. Eventually, if this was a real combat situation, Metz would ensure mortar or artillery fire was called down on the enemy position, or if that wasn’t possible, he would either send a portion of his squad forward, or be supported by another squad, and they’d advance from the flank until they could close with the pinned enemy and wipe them out with grenades or small-arms fire.

  Out here, on the firing range, Metz knew it was easy to forget that if this was for real, and not just a firing exercise, their gunfire would be ripping other human beings into so much twitching, screaming wreckage. Metz had taken part in Fall Weiss back in September of ‘39, had fired on hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned Polish infantry desperately trying to hold back the German Blitzkrieg. Metz knew he had killed or wounded enemy soldiers, although he hadn’t shot anyone at close range, not close enough to see the impact of the bullet, the spray of blood, the look of shock and pain and horror on the faces of the dying men.

  However, he had moved through enemy positions after the Poles had been shredded by machine guns and bombarded by mortars and artillery. He’d seen men ripped apart, torn limb from limb by high explosives and shrapnel, heads shattered or blown clean away. He’d passed bodies ground into paste under the steel treads of Panzers, or burned to blackened, twisted husks. The first few times, Metz had thrown up the contents of his last meal, especially when confronted by the smell of death, the odor so thick it seemed to cling to the tongue and taint the water you drank and the food you ate.

  But in time, hunger and thirst overcame Metz’s physical revulsion, and by the end of the campaign, Metz would only twist his lips in distaste and wrinkle his nose at the sight and smell of destroyed human bodies. Some men he’d fought with never adjusted to the horrors of war, and more than a few of them were taken from the front lines and sent to serve in some rear-echelon unit. For others, the pendulum swung too far in the other direction, and they became murderous and sadistic, more than happy to shoot a wounded enemy rather than summon aid, or kill a prisoner rather than accept their surrender. These acts of barbarism were officially condemned, but Metz knew those in command cared little for displays of kindness towards the enemies of the Third Reich. Healing the injured and feeding the hungry took resources, and the generals, Metz was certain, would rather dedicate those resources towards their own men than their enemies.

  Shaking his head to clear it of such morbid thoughts, Metz turned his attention back to the firing exercise.
His machine gun team was displaying excellent coordination and teamwork, and his gunner, a broad-shouldered brute of a man named Wiegand, had perfected his timing; Metz could distinctly hear six rounds fired in every machine gun burst, a difficult task with the MG-34’s high rate of fire.

  “That’s enough!” Metz shouted, and his squad immediately ceased fire. “Excellent shooting today. Pack up, and we’ll move back to quarters. Weapons maintenance first, then lunch.”

  Egger, his nose bruised and swollen from yesterday’s incident, looked past Metz and pointed. “It appears we’re not the only ones training today.”

  Metz turned and saw a squad of German soldiers approaching their makeshift firing range. The hilly ground around the town made any kind of flat, regular range area impossible, so they were shooting across a wide, low dip in the ground along the edge of the Skramsvatnet, the small lake to the north-west of South Vaagso. Other squads occasionally came to the area to shoot as well, although Metz hadn’t seen this particular unit before. He gave the squad’s Gefreiter a friendly wave, and the junior NCO saluted Metz, a gesture he casually returned.

  “Hello,” Metz said to the squad leader as the newcomer approached. “I’ve never seen your unit before, are you newly transferred here?”

  “Ja,” the corporal answered. “We’re on leave for the next two weeks.”

  The young man had short-cropped blond hair and very light blue eyes, the very picture of an ideal Aryan. But he also bore an unnaturally pale complexion, and there was a bright, waxy scar along the side of his neck that looked newly healed. If he had to guess, Metz would say the man had been badly injured, and had recently spent some time in a hospital recovering from his wounds.

  Metz eyed the Edelweiss badge on the man’s uniform. “You’re from a Gebirgstruppe unit?” he asked.

  The corporal nodded. “We’re Gebirgsjäger, light infantry. From the 139th Mountain Infantry Regiment, 3rd Mountain Division.”

  Metz nodded, remembering that the 3rd had taken part in the invasion of Poland, and then, like his own unit, tasked with the invasion of Norway during Operation Weserübung. Seeing the newcomers had their rifles slung, he gestured backwards with a thumb. “Here for some firing practice?”

  The corporal smiled. “We’re taking a walk, actually, stretching our legs. We just arrived from a ferry, and thought it would be good to get a little exercise. We heard the gunfire, but no one in town seemed concerned, so we decided we’d see what was going on.”

  “Ah, well, no excitement here,” Metz replied. “The boys have been getting a little restless, and the Oberleutnant thought it would be best to get them on the firing line and keep them occupied.” Metz stuck out his hand. “I’m Metz, by the way.”

  The corporal shook his hand. “Ansel, good to meet you. Have you been in Norway long?”

  “Since last April, and Poland before that. I believe our divisions have crossed the same ground over the last two years,” Metz answered.

  Ansel smiled. “Well, until recently, of course. We’ve been deployed along the front since June, and we fought to take the big northern port of Murmansk from the Ivans.”

  “Oh?” Metz answered. He’d heard about the failure of the joint offensive with the Finns against the Russians. The drive had been halted by the arrival of winter and the unexpectedly stiff resistance of the Russian forces. Bremer’s comment yesterday also came to mind. “I haven’t talked to anyone who’s served on the Ostfront yet, but I heard the fighting was...quite rough.”

  Ansel’s features drew tight, his lips thinning. “Yes, it was. Twenty thousand casualties trying to take the port, and little to show for it but graves and wounded men. The damned Ivans just throw themselves at us in countless waves, and no matter how many we kill, more just march over the bodies of their dead and advance on us.”

  Metz shuddered. “I have heard such things about the Russians, but it seemed impossible, just camp talk and tall tales. I did not think they could be so inhuman.”

  Ansel shook his head. “The Slavic peoples are less intelligent than us, and while they can sometimes be consumed with primitive fear and break ranks, more often they just advance into our gunfire like cattle walking into the slaughter pens.”

  “A pity then, that their Communist masters do not just capitulate and save the lives of their people,” Metz replied.

  “In the end, it does not matter,” Ansel replied, shrugging. “The Third Reich will triumph over the barbarians, and we will drive them eastward until der Führer decides we have all the land our nation needs to grow for the next thousand years. In order for that to happen, many more Russian graves will be filled.”

  Metz felt a chill that had little to do with the winter cold. He considered himself a loyal soldier of Germany and believed in doing his duty to the Fatherland, but he had no stomach for Ansel’s blood-soaked rhetoric. Defeating one’s enemies was one thing - wiping out entire peoples because you believed your own kind to be superior was something else entirely.

  Metz knew better than to voice his opinion, however. “It will be a hard road, but we must trust in der Führer. His vision will bring Germany the glory it deserves, yes?”

  “Yes indeed, Feldwebel,” Ansel readily agreed, his expression brightening. “Now, if your men are done with their firing exercises, I was going to take my squad on a walk around the lake.”

  Metz gestured behind him, towards the water and the hills beyond. “By all means, Gefreiter. It is a good day - cold, but with a clear sky and a bright sun. Enjoy yourselves, and welcome to Vaagso Island - it is pleasant here, if a little boring!”

  Chapter 6

  Scapa Flow, Scotland

  December 23Rd, 1300 Hours

  Lynch stood along the railing of HMS Prince Charles, waiting to file below deck with the rest of his squad. A sharp, bitterly cold wind cut across the water, and Lynch turned up the collar of his greatcoat, eager to get out of the wind and have a hot cup of tea. He wore his pack and carried his Thompson submachine gun slung over his shoulder, while the other men around him carried a wide variety of other weapons. A few places ahead, a Commando Lynch didn’t know stood with the long bulk of a Boys anti-tank rifle balanced on his shoulder. Lynch had used a Boys rifle once in North Africa, and was glad he hadn’t been assigned the heavy, ungainly weapon for this mission. Although the .55 calibre bullet it fired had excellent penetration power for a man-portable weapon, the rifle weighed over thirty pounds and was over five feet long.

  And if we run into any bloody panzers, Lynch thought to himself, that bloody great rifle still won’t be worth a damn. The Boys rifle was effective against soft-skinned vehicles, light armoured cars, and the smaller Panzer Is and IIs, but against the much larger and more heavily armoured Panzer IIIs and IVs, such as they’d faced on their last mission, Lynch knew the Boys rifle would be terribly ineffective.

  Glancing back behind him, Lynch saw Sergeant Ramsay from No. 1 Troop and the men of his mortar section carrying their burdens, the long tubes and heavy bipods of the three-inch mortars. They would be the heaviest weapons the Commandos brought along for this mission, and Lynch was grateful to see them. The big mortars could lob a ten-pound bomb more than two miles, and a well-trained crew could put a dozen bombs on target in a minute. Pound for pound, Lynch thought, it was the best weapon in the Commandos’ arsenal.

  Finally, the line in front of Lynch moved sufficiently for him to descend below deck, and Lynch nearly stumbled and fell on the steep, narrow iron stairs as his eyes adjusted to the relatively dark interior of the troop transport. Prince Charles and its sister ship, HMS Prince Leopold, had been built a decade ago as cross-channel ferries, and Lynch found it darkly humorous to think that the ships were still ferrying Britons across the Channel...just under circumstances their builders hadn’t likely considered.

  Eventually Lynch made it to the four-bunk cabin that would be his berth for the duration of their journey. Nelson was there, propping his Thompson in the corner, along with Troopers Higgins and Herring.
Higgins was an exemplary soldier; good-natured in the face of hardship, brave under fire, and eager to earn the respect of his superiors, especially McTeague, whom Higgins all but worshipped. Higgins was currently the squad’s Bren gunner, a role he’d been proud to take on despite the fact that the squad’s previous two gunners had died in combat.

  Trooper Herring stood in stark contrast to Higgins. Assigned to their squad shortly before they’d been sent to North Africa, Herring was the only member of the squad who’d never seen combat against the Germans during the defence of France in 1940, having only joined the army after the Dunkirk evacuation. However, Lord Pembroke had personally seen to it that Herring was assigned to their unit, and while Herring had no substantive service record to speak of, it was clearly evident after their missions in North Africa that Herring was no stranger to fighting, especially cold-blooded silent killing with a knife. Lynch had seen Herring kill a sentry in Mersa Matruh, and the wiry Londoner had positively relished the act of stabbing the unsuspecting Egyptian sentry through the kidneys with a long-bladed sword bayonet. The man also carried a switch-knife in his stocking, a practice that had served him well when he and Nelson had been captured during their last adventure.

  As the men sorted out their kit and settled into their cabin, Lynch watched the interaction between Nelson and Herring. While the two had nearly come to blows several times when Herring had first joined the squad, there was now a bond between the two, a grudging respect. Nelson and Herring still traded insults with great frequency, but Lynch could tell that the two men were no longer hostile towards one another. Considering they were the two most belligerent members of the squad, Lynch considered this no mean feat.

  After squaring away their berths, Lynch and the other Commandos made their way to the ship’s galley, where they were served mugs of piping hot tea and bacon sandwiches. The four men found a table to sit at, and were quickly joined by McTeague, Bowen, Hall, and White. These men, the remainder of Lynch’s squad, were bunked across the passageway from Lynch’s berth.