Sitting on the bunk next to Lynch, Higgins was packing a dozen 30-round magazines into his rucksack. The squad’s Bren gunner was making sure the top round in each magazine was seated properly and without any interfering debris that might cause a jam. On the other side of the room, Herring was examining the sights of his Lee-Enfield rifle, while Nelson carefully packed explosive charges and fuzes into his rucksack. Although most Commandos possessed an air of professionalism, Nelson had given Lynch the exact opposite impression when they’d first met. Lynch knew the brawny Cockney to be a drinker, a womanizer, and a brawler - the sort of man who found himself in a regiment because the alternative was a prison sentence. To be sure, Harry Nelson would be the first man to state that Lynch’s impression was correct. But, under the coarse language and rude habits, there was the spirit of a true fighter, the sort of fearless man of violence that Britain so desperately needed in the ranks of its Commando troops.
On their last mission, Nelson had certainly demonstrated that fighting spirit. After an armoured raid on an enemy airfield had gone terribly wrong, Nelson and Herring had been left for dead, and subsequently captured by the Afrika Korps. The two men had escaped their captors, freed the other British soldiers held in the German outpost, and Nelson had taken command of an enemy 88mm anti-tank gun, destroying four panzers in the fighting. Along with Herring and the other Brits, Nelson had managed to rush to the aid of Lynch and those few other men who’d survived the raid, as enemy forces prepared to kill or capture them.
For his actions, Nelson had received the Military Medal, while Herring had been given a Mention in Dispatches. The two men were cutthroats and rogues, violent men who’d have probably found their fate at the end of a noose if they’d been in the army during an earlier age, or rotting in a jail cell if it were peacetime. And while Durnford-Slater and the other senior Commando officers had no tolerance for lawbreaking and immoral behavior, they knew men like Nelson and Herring were needed to take on the Nazis.
Lynch’s reverie was interrupted by a heavy footfall at the entrance to their berth. Sergeant McTeague stood in the doorway, burnt cork blacking across his features, a cloth-covered helmet tucked under one arm, the sling of his Thompson over a shoulder.
“Alright, lads. It’s time,” McTeague said. “On yer feet, check yer kit, and move to yer boarding stations. We’re in the water within thirty minutes.”
The four Commandos nodded, and McTeague returned the gesture before moving across the hall to the squad’s other berth. Lynch stood and slung his Thompson over his shoulder as the other three men stood and gathered their own weapons. Over the next few minutes, each man checked the kit of the others one last time, running hands over straps and buckles, counting magazines and grenades, examining the blacking on their hands and faces. No one trusted themselves, or even just one other team member, to make sure their weapons and kit were in fighting condition.
A whistle blew in the passageway outside their berth, and the four Commandos filed out of the room and into a bustling mess of men, equipment, and weapons. Bowen emerged from the cabin across the passageway and elbowed Lynch in the side, nodding towards all the men around them.
“Let’s hope everyone’s following proper safety regulations, or one of us isn’t making it off the ship,” Bowen mused.
“Aye, this is a right bloody mess, to be sure,” Lynch agreed.
McTeague began to move through the men like a ship cutting through a rough sea. “Form up, lads! Form up! In a few minutes, ye will move by squads up to the top deck, and prepare to board the landing craft. There will be silence - complete silence - on the deck! We’ll be within sight of the enemy as we move through the fjords, so no fags and no torches, or I’ll break yer bloody arms and legs and toss ye overboard!”
The Commandos standing in the passageway began to slowly shuffle around, the men eventually forming into some semblance of a line. Lynch heard a man further up ahead of him curse at a fellow squadmate carrying one of the long Boys rifles. The Boys gunner had stepped back and jabbed the other man in the face with the rifle’s heavy muzzle brake. Heavily-laden bodies jostled, and there was the expectation of a fight in the air.
“Steady now, boyos,” Lynch raised his voice to carry forward. “Save it for the Jerries.”
The man struck by the rifle muzzle turned around and glared down the line at Lynch. “Shut yer gob and mind yer own business, you Irish tosser!”
Lynch took a half-step out of line and turned, so the Corporal’s stripes on his shoulder were visible, and he pushed back the rim of his helmet. “Keep this up, mate, and you’re not only staying on this ship, you’ll be returned to your unit, so you will.”
The Commando sneered at Lynch, and moved to step towards him, but a hand rested on the man’s shoulder. The troublemaker turned, to find Lieutenant Price standing behind him.
“My dear fellow,” Price said, addressing the man, “please get back into line. I’m sure you’ll have ample opportunity to take out your aggression on the Germans this morning.”
The Commando gave Price a hasty salute, which the lieutenant returned. “Beg pardon, sir,” the man said. “Just a bit of a misunderstanding between me and the corporal, sir. Won’t happen again, sir. Just eager to get into the fight after all the poor weather, sir.”
Price nodded, and with a meaningful glance at Lynch, continued to move down the line, his eyes taking in the men and their weapons and kit, missing nothing. Lynch felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, for he knew he should have handled the troublemaker differently. Price had disarmed the situation with a smile and a few pleasant words, while McTeague would have needed to simply look at the man in order to end the trouble. A corporal’s stripes were all well and good - he knew he could keep his head in battle and give orders under fire - but it was the subtler arts of commanding men that eluded him.
There was a voice - it sounded like McTeague, but unusually quiet - towards the front of the line, and each man turned and whispered something to the other. The man in front of Lynch turned his head and whispered, “All quiet now, until further orders.”
Lynch nodded and repeated the command to Bowen, standing behind him. A minute after the ripple of movement reached the end of the passageway, the men began shuffling ahead. One by one they exited the passageway and climbed the narrow iron staircase two decks to the open air, where the cold winter wind struck them like a clenched fist as it cut through the narrow passage of the fjord. It was still dark topside, the blackness of night that carried so late into the morning this far north, and so soon after the winter solstice. Lynch looked to starboard and a fist clamped around his heart, for a dark wall rose from the water, looming over the ship and blotting out the stars. It took Lynch a moment to realize it wasn’t a towering wave about to crush the ship, but instead the sheer cliff face of the Husevaago point, rising high into the air. Lynch swallowed and steadied himself by touching the steel bulkhead to his left, and then continued towards the bow of the ship.
Eventually the Commandos reached their appointed stations, and the hatches down to the lower decks were dogged tight, as the crew of the Prince Charles made her ready for battle. The men stood silent, shivering and taking proffered mugs of hot chocolate from men who walked the decks, offering something warm to drink. A ripple of attention moved through the crowd, and next to Lynch, Bowen pointed up almost vertically at the top of the fjord cliff above them.
“There’s a Jerry outpost, right there. Dark, but you can make it out if you look at it just right,” Bowen whispered.
Lynch stared up into the night sky, turning his view this way and that, trying to use his peripheral vision, but he could only see the ragged border between the starry sky and the black rock wall. And then, for an instant, Lynch caught the flash of a dim light, as if a blackout curtain had been pulled aside before being dropped back into place again.
“Did you see that?” Bowen asked.
“Aye, I surely did,” Lynch whispered back.
The two weren
’t the only ones. A quiet murmur went through the Commandos, some whispering in worried tones whether or not this meant they were rumbled. But a moment later, everyone’s attention was drawn to the west, and the sound of approaching aircraft engines.
“It’s the bleedin’ Jerries!” a nervous Bren gunner whispered behind Lynch.
“Nah, you bloody idiot, it’s the RAF. Don’t you remember the briefing?” another Commando replied.
A short while later, the dark shapes of Hampden bombers passed over the convoy and angled away to the right, heading for the Rugsundo Island battery. The distant thump and rattle of anti-aircraft artillery came from the mainland ahead of them, and the Commandos watched lines of tracer rise up into the air and explode into flickering blooms of light above the brightening eastern horizon. Soon after, there was the crump of heavy ordnance exploding some distance away, as the bombs dropped from the Hampdens exploded amongst Rugsundo’s artillery positions.
Sergeants and officers began to make their way through the Commandos, and word was passed along that the men were to board their assault landing craft momentarily. The Prince Charles eventually cleared the narrow channel of the Husevaago fjord and manoeuvred to the north, into a shallow harbour. Once the waters along the sides of the troop ship were less cramped, men began boarding their landing craft, while the ship’s engines slowed to an idle in order to begin lowering the craft without calamity.
In short order, McTeague and Price appeared and ushered their men aboard one of the landing craft. Lynch grasped the icy-cold steel cable holding the landing craft aloft, steadied himself for a moment, and then climbed aboard, ensuring that his Thompson was safely slung across his back. McTeague had promised severe repercussions for any man who lost his weapon overboard. Once his feet were firmly planted, Lynch helped Bowen climb aboard, and as the embarked men helped the rest, within a minute three dozen Commandos were packed within the open metal box of the craft.
Several more minutes passed before all the other craft were boarded, and then, at a signal from each landing craft’s coxswain, the cable winches came to life, lowering the boats down to the sea below. Lynch bent his legs and braced for impact against the water, and after an uncertain moment when each man struggled to keep upright, the landing craft settled into the rhythm of the ocean, bobbing and rolling with the sea around them. Behind him, Lynch heard the boat’s engine come to life, and the coxswain increased the throttle, the screws below the boat’s stern putting the craft under its own power.
Off in the distance, ahead of the landing craft, the Royal Navy warships began to manoeuvre into bombardment positions. The massive cruiser Kenya, accompanied by its four escort destroyers, sailed on and took up station in the Vaagsfjord. Overhead, the Commandos heard the wavering drone of RAF aircraft, as the Hampdens circled far to the south before coming back around for their bombing run against the South Vaagso beachhead.
The landing craft’s engine increased in power, and each man shifted their feet to steady themselves as the boat surged ahead. At the front of the craft, McTeague stood to his full height, and turned to address the men.
“Any second now,” McTeague bellowed, his voice cutting through the sound of the boat’s engine, “those bloody great ships are gonna be firing their guns. Shells will be landing just seconds before we do, and we’ll be right under their path. Between the shells and the smoke bombs, there is going to be chaos once we land. Stick to yer mates, and get off the beachhead as fast as ye can. We’re part of the main assault force, so yer mission is to press on, kill every bloody Jerry ye see, and push through into the town.”
“Just remember,” Price stood up and shouted, “the Norwegians are not the enemy. We need their help, and we must do our best to keep casualties among them to an absolute minimum. Any building you use as cover may have a family hiding inside. Women, children, innocents. Do what you must, but remember, they are on our side. Do nothing that would stain the honor of the British fighting forces!”
With muzzle flashes lighting up the fjord, Kenya's six-inch guns roared, drowning out anything else Price might have to say. Star shells blossomed high above the water, illuminating the South Vaagso beaches and the island of Maaloy. Seconds later, the four destroyers opened up with their smaller, but more numerous guns, and in a few moments, gouts of debris were blasted into the air all over Maaloy and the Vaagso beach, as round after round of high explosive ordnance struck home, blasting sand, rock, cement, and timber into the air.
Peering over the starboard gunwale, Lynch saw the Maaloy assault contingent peel off from the rest of the landing craft, churning white foam at the base of their sterns as they cut through the water at top speed. Glancing to port, Lynch watched as another group of landing craft made for a point to the west of South Vaagso, where an anti-aircraft battery was spitting tracers up into the air towards any Hampden bomber that strayed too close, as the planes began to assemble for their run against the Vaagso beach.
“One minute out!” McTeague roared. “Ready yer weapons!”
Lynch unslung his Thompson and felt the bolt face with his off-hand, unable to see into the breech in the early morning gloom. The bolt was forward and safe, clear of any debris. He’d wait until disembarking before cocking the weapon, to prevent a sudden impact from causing an accidental discharge. All around him, Lynch’s fellow Commandos were readying their weapons and performing last-minute checks of their gear, while red flares began rising up into the air from the landing craft carrying Lieutenant-Colonel Durnford-Slater, signalling an end to the artillery barrage.
Ahead and to port, Lynch saw the dark specks of Hampden bombers turning to begin their pass over the South Vaagso beachhead.
Chapter 13
Over South Vaagso, Norway
0857 Hours
Flight-Sergeant Smith flinched as another burst of flak sent a tremor through his Hampden bomber. He was lined up behind the aircraft five hundred yards ahead of him, beginning their bombing run against the enemy beach.
So far, the mission had been easy enough. The flight north had passed without incident, and their first drop on the Rugsundo battery had run like clockwork. Watson had dropped their ordnance right on target, and none of the Germans’ flak had come anywhere near their aircraft. Indeed, all bombers and crews were undamaged and accounted for as the Hampdens began the second phase of their mission.
“Ten seconds!” Smith reported over the plane’s intercom.
“Roger that, bombardier ready!” came Watson’s reply from behind Smith’s cockpit.
Suddenly, three loud explosions shook the Hampden, the noise so loud, Smith was momentarily stunned by their force. The bomber lurched in the air and began to roll to starboard, out over the water and above the Commandos’ landing craft. Smith struggled with the yoke, feet working the pedals frantically to help bring the aircraft around and on course again, when he heard a mechanical clunk, the sound of the Hampden’s bomb release mechanism.
“What’re you doing?” Smith shouted. “We’re over the bloody landing craft!”
“It wasn’t me!” Watson cried out, his voice indicating he was in considerable pain. “Something must’ve given way! The back end of the bloody bird is all in tatters, and I think Bell is done for!”
Smith managed to get the Hampden level again, but the plane was losing altitude fast, and the controls were soft and terribly unresponsive. It was a sign that either the control surfaces were wrecked, or some of the cabling was cut. A quick glance at the control panel showed that oil and fuel pressure were dropping quickly, and the temperature was rising on the port engine. A few mental calculations brought Smith to a chilling conclusion: his aircraft was going to crash.
“The old girl’s had it,” Smith reported over the intercom. “I’m going to look for a place to set her down.”
But looking out his cockpit window, Smith’s heart sank. To port there was South Vaagso, rows of buildings and homes, and further along, rough hills, trees, and other terrain features that would turn his b
omber into a field of burning debris in the blink of an eye. Ahead of him was the dark water of the fjord, cold and equally deadly, but smooth and open, without any ships or fishing boats immediately ahead.
“Land is no good,” Smith told the crew, “I’m going to try and turn around and attempt a water landing near our ships. Brace yourselves, lads, and pray for a stroke of luck.”
Smith pulled back on the throttle and lowered the flaps, increasing lift and reducing the stricken aircraft’s speed as much as possible without going into a stall. With each passing second, the controls were becoming more difficult, the plane’s attitude more unstable. Fighting against his fear, Smith brought the bomber around, eying the airspeed gauge and the altimeter, knowing that if he hit the water too hard, or at too steep an angle, the Hampden would break apart.
A sudden thought worried him. “Bob, can you get the bomb bay doors closed?” Smith asked.
“I’ll try my best,” came Watson’s reply.
But there wasn’t any time left. With a shudder, the Hampden rolled sharply to port, and Smith was only able to partially recover before the wingtip caught the water. Smith’s cockpit seat harness snapped as he was jerked sideways from the impact, and his head bounced off the side of the Hampden’s narrow fuselage.
The last thing Smith saw before his vision went dark was the cockpit windshield cracking from the impact with the water.
Chapter 14
The South Vaagso Beachhead
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 23
