0900 Hours
Lynch watched one of the Hampden bombers pass overhead, trailing smoke and struggling to remain in the air. Behind it, a bomb floated down towards the flotilla of landing craft, a drag chute slowing its descent. The men on Lynch’s boat watched with dread as the bomb fell, hoping it might plunge harmlessly into the fjord, but several gasped in horror as they saw where it would land.
“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Nelson, staring wide-eyed. “Those poor bastards!”
The bomb dropped dead-center into the belly of a landing craft. The screams of wounded men and the smell of burning flesh carried over the water. Fire spread quickly, and several men tried to climb over the sides, clothing smouldering as bits of burning phosphorus seared their bodies, but only Lieutenant Komrower succeeded, clinging to the bow of the craft as it raced towards the beach. The boat’s machinist gunned the engine, trying to get it to shore as quickly as possible, but when the bow of the boat struck the rocks and sand, Komrower lost his grip and fell under the bow, the boat’s momentum driving the belly of the craft up and over his legs, pinning him at the waterline. Komrower let out a scream of pain as his legs were crushed.
From the bow of their landing craft, the sound of McTeague's voice pulled Lynch's attention away from the horrific scene. “When we hit the beach, ye follow me!” the sergeant thundered, pointing at Nelson, Lynch, and several other Commandos.
They were only a few yards from shore, and the German resistance was so far almost non-existent. A few bullets ricocheted off the armored prow of their craft, but between the pre-landing bombardment and the white phosphorus smoke screen, the Germans’ fire was ineffective. Lynch braced himself for the impact with the beach, and the engine cut out a moment later, so the craft slowed just before making contact with the rocky sand, beaching itself with a grinding sound and a vibration along the craft’s flat bottom.
The armored bow dropped immediately, and Commandos poured out into the frigid surf, weapons at the ready. Price directed most of the men to press onwards, while a half-dozen of them joined McTeague, who immediately set off towards the burning landing craft. The beached craft had dropped its prow, and burned men were scattered all over the beach, while a handful of medical orderlies who’d already made landfall were doing the best they could to aid the most badly wounded.
“We’ve got to get the boat off of Lieutenant Komrower,” McTeague told his men. “Grab rifles from the wounded. We’ll use ‘em to lever the boat away from the shore.”
Lynch and the others took Lee-Enfields from wounded men, some begging to hold onto their weapons even as they were drugged with morphine. Wading out into the icy water, the Commandos approached Komrower. An officer whom Lynch recognized as Captain Linge of the Norwegian contingent was trying to free Komrower by rocking the landing craft back and forth.
“Help me! He is trapped!” Linge cried in accented English, as McTeague and the others approached. “There is rock under legs, and I cannot free him!”
McTeague leaned around the craft’s starboard gunwale. “Back her off the beach, ye bloody fool!” he shouted at the coxswain.
The man cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted back. “The screws are turning at full reverse power! She’s stuck fast!”
McTeague cursed, then directed his men around the bow, and the men wedged the butts of their borrowed rifles into the rocky surf. At the count of three, every man heaved against their makeshift levers as hard as they could. For a long moment, nothing happened, save McTeague’s borrowed rifle stock cracking and breaking in half. The Scotsman cursed and flung the broken weapon aside, then braced himself against the bow of the landing craft and, with a roar, pushed with all his considerable strength. Inch by inch, the boat began to slide backwards, and after a few seconds, Captain Linge was able to drag Lieutenant Komrower free from underneath the boat’s prow. The wounded officer was almost white with pain, but he didn’t make a sound as Linge pulled him up onto the beach.
Lynch and the other men turned to see Durnford-Slater and Captain Corry, the mission’s Medical Officer, approaching. Salutes were quickly exchanged before the lieutenant-colonel gestured towards Komrower.
“Sergeant, how bad is the lieutenant hurt?” the lieutenant-colonel asked McTeague.
“Ach, his legs may be broken, sir. I cannae tell ye.”
Durnford-Slater nodded. “That was quick thinking on your part, Sergeant McTeague. Now, form up with Lieutenant Price and the rest of your men. I’ll see to it that this lot is looked after.”
“Aye, sir.” McTeague replied, snapping a salute. “C’mon lads, back into the fight!”
Lynch and the others followed McTeague through the shifting clouds of acrid white phosphorus smoke, back towards their position. The roar of Thompsons and Bren guns was increasing in volume, as the remaining German beach defenders were driven back towards the town. However, the Germans were not retiring passively from their positions. More than one Commando fell wounded from German bullets, and as Lynch watched, Lieutenant Bill Lloyd led one of his squads up the rocky escarpment and off the beach, only to be shot through the neck. Lloyd let out a gurgle and pitched backwards, tumbling down the rocks and into the sand below. Two of Lloyd’s men grabbed him and dragged him off in the direction of where M.O. Corry was tending the burned men.
“This Christmas holiday is becoming less cheerful by the minute,” Nelson hollered to Lynch over the sound of machine gun fire. Overhead, several Mauser bullets snapped past as the Germans tried to slow the progress of Commando squads deploying from the beachhead.
“You’ve got that right, boyo!” Lynch shouted in reply, drawing back the bolt on his Thompson.
The assault on South Vaagso had begun.
Chapter 15
South Vaagso
0915 Hours
Metz twisted as he ran and fired a quick burst from the hip with his machine pistol, emptying the weapon’s 32-round magazine as British gunfire kicked up plumes of dirty snow and pulverized rock around his feet. Metz managed to duck behind a stone building just as a flurry of machine gun fire hammered the corner, knocking away handfuls of chipped rock. Metz caught his breath for a second, then risked a glance around the edge of the building. Two of his men hadn’t made the dash to safety, their bodies now strewn across the open ground between where he hid and their original fighting position. Two more of his men, including the squad’s machine gunner, never even got a chance to run.
They’d been providing security detail for some construction work that morning, when all of a sudden they’d heard the droning of aircraft overhead, and the anti-aircraft battery to the west had opened fire. Metz had seen the distant explosions on Rugsundo, but he’d just assumed it was a squadron of Tommy bombers harassing the island battery. A messenger was dispatched back to their headquarters building to make sure word was sent by wireless to the nearest airfield, and Metz had ordered his MG-34 team to make sure the weapon was ready, just in case.
But then the star shells had bloomed high in the air, and Metz finally saw the warships out in the Vaagsfjord, just seconds before the big naval guns began to boom. The ripping-canvas sound of shells reached their ears as geysers of sand and rock leapt into the air. Major Schroeder had ordered them all to take cover a moment before a high-explosive shell had detonated a few meters away, and when the debris and smoke had cleared, he was nowhere to be seen.
Oberleutnant Bremer had taken charge then, getting the survivors of the initial bombardment organized and firing on the landing craft, but he’d been killed just minutes later, leaving command to Stabsfeldwebel Lebrenz. Along with Metz and the other non-commissioned officers, the German defenders were slowly moving back into the first row of buildings, as the Tommies consolidated their forces along their beachhead.
Now, Metz pulled the empty magazine from his MP-38 and tossed it aside, pulling a fresh magazine from one of the pouches on his webbing. He fitted it into his machine pistol and worked the bolt, making sure the weapon was clear of obstructions and ready to fire. Glancing
back behind him, Metz saw the five remaining members of his squad, weapons in hand and panicked looks on their faces. Soldat Egger, his nose still purple from the incident a few days ago, was only armed with his pistol, so Metz pulled his lone stick-grenade from his belt and handed it to the assistant machine gunner.
“Do not waste it,” Metz ordered. “It’s the only one we’ve got right now.”
“Understood, Feldwebel,” Egger replied, tucking the grenade into his belt.
“Is anyone injured?” Metz asked.
One of the men gestured to a dark stain on his upper thigh. “I think I caught a shell splinter or a bullet fragment. It isn’t bad, though. I can still fight.”
A sound from behind them caused Metz and the rest of his squad to turn and bring up their weapons, but it was only Stabsfeldwebel Lebrenz and a small collection of men, moving from a more eastern position towards their own. Lebrenz was in his 30s, older than Metz by a decade, and in Metz’s opinion, one of the toughest non-commissioned officers in the whole Wehrmacht. If Lebrenz was on his feet and fighting, they still had hope.
Metz nodded to Lebrenz. “Stabsfeldwebel, good to see you’re still alive.”
Lebrenz ran his experienced gaze over what was left of Metz’s squad. “These are your remaining men?”
“I lost two in the initial bombardment, including my machine gun. Two more were cut down as we fell back to this position,” Metz replied.
“Pity, an MG-34 would be very useful right now,” Lebrenz said, his lips pulling into a thin line. “We do not have the firepower needed to fight the Tommies properly.”
“Do we have any idea at all how many there are?” Metz asked Lebrenz.
The senior sergeant shook his head. “They would not send so many warships, unless this was an assault of battalion strength or better. I would imagine we are outnumbered several times over.”
A knot of fear twisted in Metz’s belly. “Why here? What do the Tommies want?”
Lebrenz gestured behind him with a gloved thumb. “The fish oil factories, no doubt. Their product is very valuable to the war effort.”
Metz nodded, then glanced back out into the open ground to the south. He saw dozens of British soldiers moving about, forming up into their units and preparing to assault the town.
“What are your orders, Stabsfeldwebel?”
Lebrenz thought for a moment, peering out into the smoke-cloaked beachhead. Metz saw the veteran swallow hard, the closest thing Lebrenz had ever done to show fear before.
“Someone will have sent word over the wireless by now. The nearest airfields will scramble aircraft to engage those bombers and the warships. With so many men ashore, the British will not leave and abandon them, so the longer we keep the attackers occupied, the more time the Luftwaffe will have to take action.”
Metz thought for a second. “House to house fighting. If every squad takes a building and turns it into a stronghold, with escape routes and overlapping fields of fire, we can slow the progress of the Tommies. Make them pay in blood for every step they take.”
Lebrenz nodded. “Precisely. Now, fall back and make for the hotel and Leutnant zur See Sebelin, so he knows what has happened and is informed of our plan. He’s likely the senior officer in Vaagso now, but he is smart enough to know that this is the best hope we have.”
Metz saluted Lebrenz. “Jawohl, Stabsfeldwebel. Where will you be, if I need to find you?”
Lebrenz gave Metz a cold smile and returned his salute. “I will likely be warming my feet in Hell while drinking a large stein of beer.” He glanced at the men with him, all looking grim and determined. “We’re going to buy the rest of you the time you need to prepare Vaagso for the British. Make sure it is a warm reception.”
Metz’s last sight of Lebrenz was the senior sergeant and his men breaking into a nearby house, preparing to sell their lives at great cost to the enemy.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Stabsfeldwebel,” Metz whispered.
Chapter 16
The Factory
0920 Hours
Arna Landvik huddled against the north wall of the factory’s main processing room with two dozen other workers. They sat on the rough hardwood floor, keeping their hands visible so that the young German guard, finger on the trigger of his rifle, did not panic and accidentally shoot one of them. Outside to the south, the sounds of machine gun fire and explosions were growing louder by the minute. Arna didn’t know if that meant the attackers were getting closer or the fighting was getting fiercer, but either way, their guard was all but shaking with fright.
At first, they’d all thought there had been an accident out on the water, perhaps an explosion aboard on of the armed German trawlers that used Vaagso as a base. But as the explosions continued, and the strange bright lights began floating down from the sky, it became clear they were under attack by warships and bombers, almost certainly British. Their guard had directed the curious away from the windows and seated them along the northern wall of the main factory floor, after all the machinery had been shut down. There they’d sat, waiting out the attack and hoping the factories weren’t on the list of British targets.
As the minutes passed, the larger explosions gave way to the sounds of gunfire, and several of the older men whispered amongst themselves that the British must be landing men on Vaagso. It might be a full-scale attack to reclaim Norway, now that the Germans are busy with the Soviets, they whispered to each other. Arna just sat still and held the hand of Una, a stout woman in her mid-40s who’d bonded with Arna as soon as she’d begun working at the factory. Una’s husband had died several years ago, and Arna always suspected that Una had fancied Gregert, Arna’s father, when Gregert was still working at the factory.
“I don’t want to die here,” Una whispered to her. “I don’t want to die smelling of fish guts and machine grease.”
“Everything will be fine,” Arna whispered back, squeezing Una’s hand tight. “They need us to work the factories. The Germans won’t hurt us.”
Una turned and looked at Arna, her eyes wide. “Don’t you hear that outside? They have guns and bombs. The fighting will tear the town apart, burn down people’s homes. They could destroy this factory and all of us in it, and not even notice.”
Before Arna could reply, a harsh voice shouted something in German from the other side of the main factory door. Their guard backed up towards the door and shouted a reply, something that sounded like a challenge or question. The voice on the other side of the door answered, and their guard looked visibly relieved. Keeping his rifle pointed at Arna and the others with one hand, he reached over and unlocked the door with the other, peering out before opening the door all the way.
Immediately, a group of ten Germans soldiers marched into the factory, led by a pale-skinned man with blond hair and blue eyes, carrying a machine pistol. Arna possessed the same tailor’s eye for clothing as her mother, and she realized these men wore uniforms with insignia slightly different than their guard’s. Arna remembered that, a few days ago, a new group of Germans had come to town, supposedly on holiday from fighting the Soviets. She’d overheard her father and Ditlef the baker during Christmas dinner talking about these new arrivals, and how they were supposed to be from some kind of special unit.
Whoever they were, and whatever unit they came from, the newcomers frightened Arna. They all had a distant, calloused look about them, the look of men who had been part of something terrible, who’d lost some part of their humanity. Arna had always believed the young German who guarded the factory was almost as scared of the factory workers as they were of him. But the new arrivals had the look of men who’d murder them all in an instant if ordered to do so.
The newcomers’ leader, the blond man with the machine pistol, spoke to their guard, gesturing towards the southern end of town. After a few moments, their guard nodded, gave Arna and the others a final glance, and then left the factory at a run. The blond man turned and gave the Norwegians a sour look, snarling something at them in German and wavin
g his gun at them menacingly before turning and barking orders to his men.
The factory foreman, whom Arna knew spoke some German, turned towards the others. “They’re here to defend the factory against the British,” the older man said. “He thinks they will come to blow the factory up, so they are going to defend it. If we try anything suspicious, he will shoot us all.”
Arna watched as the ten Germans prepared to defend the factory. Three men, one of whom carried a large, heavy-looking machine gun, climbed the staircase up to the second floor, while the seven men remaining piled whatever they could to form barriers in front of the doorway and along the walls near the windows, which were systematically cleared of glass through the use of rifle butts. Men placed grenades near at hand, while others produced small clips of bullets from their belt pouches and set them within easy reach. Although Arna knew the men had to be nervous, they seemed to go about their duties without fear or undue haste. Clearly these men had seen battle many times, and knew what they needed to do to prepare for an attack.
“What should we do if the British come here?” Una asked the foreman, who then turned and addressed the leader of the Germans. Arna saw the foreman gesturing towards the stairs leading down to the basement, where the fish were delivered by boat and sorted before processing.
The German sneered at the foreman and said something in a harsh tone before he shook his head and patted his weapon, then turned to go back about his business. The foreman paled and turned to the rest of the factory workers.
“He says we’re to stay where we are, because if the British try to take the factory, he’ll start shooting us until they go away.”
Una let out a whimper and squeezed Arna’s hand so hard it hurt. Arna’s other hand dropped to her side, instinctively feeling for her brother’s knife. But it wasn’t with her, it was inside the pocket of her coat, hanging along the wall to her right near the door. Arna looked around, trying to see another weapon, and her gaze found a wooden mallet leaning against a table leg to her left, a couple of metres away. The mallet was used to seat or unseat long metal pins and guide rods, and she knew it weighed at least two kilos. Heavy enough to knock a man senseless, if you hit him hard enough, Arna thought to herself.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 24
