Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

Higgins stood up and peered through another one of the galley portholes. “It’s coming from the Prince Leopold. There’s someone up on deck with a set of bagpipes.”

  Bowen looked over to the other troopship, then laughed out loud. “My God, it’s Major Churchill!”

  At this, many of the Commandos who’d finished their meal left the galley and went up on deck for a better look. The Prince Leopold sat at anchor a hundred yards away, and up on its forward deck, dancing and shuffling around in his uniform and full kit, Major Jack Churchill played his bagpipes to a crowd of men gathering around him.

  Lynch and the other men of his squad stood along the railing of Prince Charles and listened to the Commando major play his pipes, many with their cups of brandy still in hand. A few of the men hummed along with the tune, and a lance sergeant behind Lynch broke into a jig, to the hooting and laughter of his comrades.

  “He’s not half bad, you know,” Bowen said, nodding across the water towards Churchill. Aboard the other ship, someone called out, “Next street!” and the laughter of the men aboard the Prince Leopold floated across the water.

  “Bloody well half-mad, is what he is,” Nelson muttered, tossing back the last of his brandy.

  “He’s a solid fightin’ man, fearless an’ steady as a rock,” McTeague said. “Don’t matter if’n he be a wee bit eccentric, I’d fight with ‘im on any field o’ battle.”

  Lynch continued to watch “Mad Jack” play his bagpipes aboard the Prince Leopold, remembering how he’d seen the Commando officer on the practice fields numerous times, cutting through the air with his Claymore or feathering a target with his longbow. There was a long-standing bet among the men of 3 Commando as to whether or not Churchill would ever put an arrow into a German, and even Corporal Charlesworth, Durnford-Slater’s batman, was in on the action for five quid. Lynch had twenty riding on the Mad Major, and he somehow felt confident that he wasn’t going to be disappointed.

  Eventually the cold and their sergeants drove the men back below deck, and after a few contraband bottles of various sorts were passed around in the spirit of bringing about more Christmas cheer, the men eventually retired to their bunks for the evening. Many had slept only an hour or so the previous night, and most were exhausted, falling asleep minutes after their heads hit their pillows, grateful for the calm waters of the Sullom Voe anchorage.

  The next day, repairs on the ships were completed, the sea-fouled water tanks refilled, and final stores taken aboard. The NCOs and the Medical Officer reviewed every man aboard the troop transports, ensuring that there were no lingering ill effects from the seasickness so many had suffered. Thankfully, all aboard were deemed to be fighting-fit, although reports of continuing bad weather on the open ocean made a number of previously sick men blanch at the thought of going back out to sea again.

  After the midday meal, word went around the ship that the weather report had at last been received, pointing to the bad weather rapidly dissipating, with a clear forecast for the morning of the 27th. The mission was given the go-ahead, and all the officers and senior NCOs met a final time, while the fighting men prepared their gear for the morning assault. Around 1600 hours that afternoon, the ships weighed anchor and set out. The seas were still a bit rough, but within a few hours they calmed considerably, alleviating fears of another rough passage.

  McTeague stepped into their berth just before lights-out. “Ye needs be on yer feet at 0400, lads. Get what sleep ye can, a tot of Nelson’s rum if’n ye need it to sleep. But only one, mind ye. I need ye lads sharp on the morrow.”

  “Oy, what’s all this about rum?” Nelson asked, feigning innocence. “We all know that’s not regulation.”

  McTeague lowered his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be daft, Corporal. I bloody well know everything.”

  And with that, McTeague slapped the bulkhead and crossed the passageway into his own berth.

  “Alright now,” Lynch said to Nelson. “Out with that bloody bottle. I think we all need a dram before bed, so we do.”

  “Bloody sergeants,” Nelson muttered, and reached under his bunk.

  Chapter 10

  Raf Wick Airfield, Scotland

  December 27th, 0400 Hours

  Flight-Sergeant Reginald Smith squinted and held a hand up in front of his face to block the light streaming into his bunk room.

  “Bloody hell, can’t be time yet!” he groaned.

  “On your feet, Flight-Sergeant,” the silhouette in the doorway said in a clipped voice. Smith didn’t immediately recognize the individual, who waited just long enough to see Smith sit up before hurrying on to wake another flight crew.

  Smith struggled out of his cot and began to dress. “Alright you layabouts, time to get up!”

  Bob Watson, Smith’s bombardier-navigator, climbed down from the top bunk opposite Smith. As soon as his feet hit the cold concrete floor of the bunk room, Watson muttered a curse and hopped from one foot to another while he fished his socks out from underneath his blankets.

  “This is bloody ridiculous!” Watson muttered. “They can’t expect us to fly after all the snow last night! The runway can’t be cleared yet, and what about the birds? Probably frozen to the bloody tarmac, I’ll wager.”

  John Williams, the plane’s radio operator, pulled a woolen sweater over his head and ran fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Those boys in their landing craft need us, snow or no snow. Be thankful you’ll be above it all in a plane, rather than bobbing about in an open tin can while Jerry lobs mortars at you and sprays you with MG fire.”

  “They’ll be spraying us with plenty,” chimed in Derek Bell, their plane’s rear gunner. “You know better than that. We’re to keep the Jerries looking up, not out across the water. Bloody bait for the enemy, we are.”

  “That’s enough, from all of you,” Smith said, in a voice that brought the others to silence. “Get dressed, stop off at the lav, and then breakfast and pre-flight briefing. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Smith finished getting dressed and took care of his ablutions, then made his way into the aircrews’ mess. He filled his plate with bacon, eggs, and two large slices of toast thoroughly plastered with butter and marmalade, then further burdened his tray with two mugs, one containing strong tea with sweetened milk, the other filled to the brim with scalding hot chocolate. Smith sat at the table where Williams and Bell had already begun eating, and a moment later, Watson joined them. The other Hampden bomber crews were filing into the mess, most of them as bleary-eyed as Smith and his men.

  As the four airmen tucked into their breakfast, the mood at the table began to improve. They’d flown into RAF Wick several days before, expecting to fly this mission on the 25th, but the weather had grounded them and postponed the operation. With snow piling up and nothing to do, the flight crews had found themselves penned up inside the airbase’s buildings, waiting impatiently for the weather to turn and a timeline to be finalized. Late last night, the meteorological report for the next twenty-four hours had confirmed the break in the weather, and they’d received word that Combined Operations had given the nod to the raid taking place on the 27th.

  Smith looked out a nearby window and saw men with electric torches moving around, the dim beams of light illuminating the runway, now mostly cleared of snow. Beyond them, the ground crews were crawling all over the ten Hampden bombers lined up outside. Snow and ice were being meticulously cleaned from the aircraft, while the ordnance crews wheeled out the bomb loads, bringing them to a halt under the Hampdens’ bellies before opening their bomb bays and loading the deadly cargo inside.

  “Bloody cold work, that,” Williams said, seeing where Smith was looking.

  “I’d rather be loading bombs instead of dropping them,” Watson replied. “Quite a bit safer.”

  “Quitting on me now, are you?” Smith asked over the rim of his tea mug.

  Watson waggled his eyebrows and took a big bite out of his toast.

  Smith chuckled and speared a forkful of scrambled
eggs. In truth, he enjoyed the banter of his flight crew - it reminded him of his days among the Old Prunitians of the Plumtree School, back in his Rhodesian homeland. Smith was only twenty-two, and he’d gone into the Civil Service right out of school. Smith then joined the RAF just after his birthday in 1940, after learning of their desperate need for airmen to replace the losses incurred during the Battle of Britain. Of course, by the time he’d finished his training the immediate crisis had passed, but Smith was nevertheless transferred to No. 50 Squadron at RAF Swinderby, near Lincolnshire, where he’d been assigned the position of Flight-Sergeant aboard a Hampden bomber.

  The three men under his command were all good fellows, and he was only a year older than any of them. Williams and Bell were both reservists, called up because of the desperate need for manpower, and despite serving under Smith aboard the bomber, Watson was actually a Flight Officer. Together, the four of them had flown several night bombing missions against the mainland, and Smith was glad to be able to take a break from those assignments. The night attacks never sat right with him, because although they tried their best, it was inevitable that some of the bombers were off-target, and that meant civilian casualties. Smith knew such things were an inevitable part of war, but he was quite glad today’s mission was more clear-cut, with less chance of things going wrong.

  In fact, were he honest with himself, Smith thought the idea of flying in support of a Commando operation was rather exciting. Such missions seemed something right out of an adventure tale; brave men, their faces smeared with burnt cork, slipping ashore on an enemy beach, daggers in hand, silencing sentries and blowing up enemy positions. Smith imagined flying overhead, dropping bombs on German strong points and reducing them to rubble, waggling his Hampden’s wings as he climbed away into the sky, looking out the cockpit window as he banked around to see the grateful Commandos waving up to him in thanks.

  Smith’s daydreaming was interrupted by a call for all flight crews to convene in the briefing room for their final pre-mission prep and review. The men bolted down the last remnants of their breakfast, and then made their way into the adjoining room, moving through the rows of seats where each crew sat together, some of the men still carrying a bit of toast or a mug of tea.

  Once seated, each man produced a notebook and pencil from their pockets and began to take notes as the Wing Commander went over the relevant details of the mission. The ten Hampdens would attack the German battery on Rugsundo island just after the convoy of ships entered the fjords and passed the lookout post on Husevaag island. Although the Rugsundo battery was a legitimate target, the most important reason for its bombing was to provide a distraction for the convoy. As it passed through the narrow fjords, the ships would be in full view of anyone who happened to look in their direction, despite the convoy running dark before sunrise.

  Once the Rugsundo battery had been attacked, the bombers were to circle out, keeping the Germans distracted and looking to the skies as the troop ships put their landing craft out to sea. Then, the Hampdens would come back towards South Vaagso, dropping a load of smoke bombs along the beach to provide cover for the Commandos just before they came ashore. Looking at the aerial photographs of the landing site, Smith knew the raiding party would be in full view of anyone along the beach. If there was no smoke screen, it could very well spell disaster for the entire operation.

  The more Smith studied the maps and photographs pinned to the boards in the front of the room, the more uneasy he became. South Vaagso was a small, narrow strip of habitation along the mouth of the fjord. Given the speed he’d be flying at, and the anti-aircraft fire they’d be trying to avoid, it would be extremely easy to overshoot the beach and accidentally drop their ordnance on the southern end of the town. Although they were called “smoke bombs”, in reality the Hampdens were dropping white phosphorus incendiary bombs. Upon impact, a small bursting charge would detonate, spraying an area many yards across with fragments of burning phosphorus, which produced a thick, heavy smoke screen.

  However, the phosphorus was extremely dangerous, able to ignite on contact with air and water, and once it burned, there was no easy way for it to be extinguished. Bits of phosphorus in contact with skin would burn into the flesh and bone, causing horrifying injuries. One of those smoke bombs detonating in the middle of a South Vaagso street would mean homes burned to the ground, and innocent civilians injured or killed. They’d all been briefed on the importance of minimizing collateral damage - a tough prospect when, at the same time, they’d be sinking any viable fishing or cargo vessels they found in the fjords, and blowing up the fish oil factories along the docks, which sat right in the middle of South Vaagso.

  Eventually, the briefing came to an end. Smith and the other crewmen rose and went back to their bunks to collect flight suits and cold-weather gear, then made their way out onto the cold, dark airfield. There were no floodlights to illuminate the area, just ground crews with torches providing illumination as the airmen made their way to the Hampdens along the runway. Each bomber loomed out of the darkness alone, with fifty yards between planes to lessen the chances of a bomb strike destroying more than one.

  Smith’s bomber was fourth in line, and as it came into view, he saw the ground crew was removing the last of the ice and snow from the wings and fuselage, while the ordnance handlers were carefully loading the Hampden’s payload of high explosive and smoke bombs into the plane’s belly. The Hampden was a very narrow aircraft, the fuselage just three feet wide, and its tall, flat appearance earned it the nickname, “The Flying Suitcase” by its crews. Using ladders and no small amount of flexibility, the four men climbed aboard their plane, making their way through the narrow crew embarkation hatch and up into the top deck of the plane. Bell moved back and took up his station in the rear gunner’s seat, while Smith folded down the pilot’s seat before clambering over it and folding it upright so he could sit down. Watson and Williams settled into their respective positions as well, and within moments the four men were going through their pre-flight checklists.

  “Alright, lads,” the voice of their wing commander came through Smith’s headphones. “Begin takeoff procedures. We’ll circle at ten thousand feet until everyone is airborne, then on my command, depart for the target location.”

  Smith proceeded through his long list of tasks, as the rest of the crew did their part in preparation for takeoff. The Hampden’s cockpit was a dizzying array of switches, dials, gauges, knobs, levers, and other controls, over a hundred altogether. It took a very sharp eye and a quick mind to track everything that was going on and respond to it in a timely fashion, especially while in the middle of a bombing run, evading flak, or tangling with enemy fighters. The complexity of operating the bomber was made even worse if Smith ever found himself having to go on the offensive, and attempt to shoot down an enemy plane with the Hampden’s single forward-facing .303 machine gun. While the Hampden was officially considered a “fighter-bomber”, Smith had no illusions as to how well the aircraft would handle in a dogfight against one of the dedicated German fighters, like the Bf-109 or the Fw-190. Smith shuddered as he had a brief vision of his Hampden shaking with bullet impacts, strafed again and again by an enemy fighter until his plane slowly nosed into the North Atlantic.

  “Reg, old son, you falling asleep at the stick?” Watson’s voice cut through Smith’s reverie over the plane’s intercom channel. Smith shook his head, realizing he’d stopped his checklist procedures while imagining the destruction of his aircraft.

  “Sorry about that,” Smith replied. “I guess I didn’t sleep as well as I thought last night.”

  “Well try to stay awake, my dear fellow! We’re all bloody well counting on you to keep us from taking an early morning bath in some rather frigid waters,” Watson replied.

  Smith heard the nervous chuckles of Bell and Williams on the intercom as he started the two engines. Eying the gauges as the engines warmed up, Smith watched the number three Hampden slowly pull away from its position along the run
way, then turn in front of his cockpit window. The bomber’s pilot revved the engines for a moment before the Hampden picked up speed and disappeared off to the left-hand side of the runway, guided along its path by a handful of cold men standing on the runway in parkas and holding torches. Moments later, out of the left-hand side of the cockpit window, Smith saw the blinking guide-light that marked the bomber as it lifted off into the sky.

  Smith waved to the ground crew, who pulled the chocks from the wheels of his plane, and he gunned the engines. Pulling out of his space along the tarmac, Smith mimicked the previous pilot, swinging the Hampden around and positioning it so that he was pointed down the runway. For the next several hundred yards, Smith saw the pinpoints of light where the ground crew stood in the cold and dark.

  “Number Four, ready for takeoff,” Smith announced over the wireless.

  “You are cleared for takeoff, Number Four. Good luck,” replied the ground controller.

  Smith made a few minor adjustments, then placed his hand on the master throttle. “Alright lads, brace yourselves!”

  Pushing the throttles to the stops, Smith was pressed back into his seat as the Hampden raced down the runway. Taking the yoke in both hands, Smith watched the gauges until the engine revolutions and airspeed were where he wanted them, and then he pulled back in a slow, steady motion. With surprising grace, the Hampden lifted off from the runway and climbed into the predawn darkness.

  Smith glanced at his wristwatch, and noted the time: 0530 hours.

  Right on schedule, Smith thought to himself.

  Chapter 12

  South-West Of Vaagso Island, Norway

  December 27Th, 0745 Hours

  Lynch sat on the edge of his bunk and pushed another cartridge into the seven-round pistol magazine held in his hand. While most of the Commandos in the raiding force did not carry sidearms, save the officers and specialists such as the Bren gunners or mortarmen, those in Price’s squad stuck to their old ways, and every man carried a pistol in addition to their primary weapon. Lynch fitted the magazine into the butt of the American-made, .45 calibre Colt M1911A1 automatic, and slipped the weapon into its holster. Two additional magazines were tucked into a pouch on the other side of his belt, along with his FS Commando knife.