Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  Lynch digested this for a moment, and then asked, "And what about Hall?"

  “He seemed okay when I left him,” Bowen replied. “One of Captain Corry’s orderlies bandaged his leg, and last I saw of him, he was sitting on a crate, handing out bandages and helping however he could. I don’t think he wanted to leave with the badly wounded, so he’s toughing it out.”

  Just then, Captain Forrester approached the two Commandos, with several more men trailing behind him. Along with Captain Giles of No. 3 Troop, Forrester was charged with the push north into town. Never one to shirk his duty, Forrester had already led several house-clearings that morning, and he carried a Thompson in his hands, a satchel of Mills Bombs slung over his shoulder. Lynch and Bowen saluted their troop captain, and Forrester returned the gesture.

  “Lads, sorry to hear about Lieutenant Price,” Forrester said to them. “He’ll be on his way to one of the ships and in the best care possible in no time. But right now, we need to press on and break Jerry’s defensive line.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lynch said, with Bowen nodding next to him. “Sergeant McTeague is on his way right now.”

  Forrester turned to see McTeague approaching with the rest of his squad, freshly provisioned with ammunition and grenades. “Excellent! Carry on lads, and make your lieutenant proud.”

  As Forrester walked away, pointing north and talking to his men, McTeague nodded towards the buildings along the right side of South Vaagso’s main street. “Time to earn yer shillings, me lads. We’re moving forward, going to flank the hotel with Forrester and his men before we capture it and use it as our own staging area for the rest of the assault through the town.”

  The squad formed up, with Nelson taking point, followed by McTeague, White, Lynch, Bowen, and then finally Higgins and Herring bringing up the rear. They hugged the edge of the buildings, eyes and gun muzzles sweeping every doorway and window for signs of skulking German defenders. Every so often a bullet would crack past them, often high or well to their right, and it was impossible to tell exactly from where the shots were coming. It had been made clear to them that simply firing back in the general direction would mean too many civilian casualties, so the Commandos simply crouched down lower, gritted their teeth, and pressed onward.

  Suddenly from their right, a rifle barked, and Lynch jerked back as splinters jumped from the wall right next to his head. He turned and brought up his Thompson in time to see a rifle barrel withdraw from a second story window in a nearby house. Several of the Commandos opened fire, riddling the window with bullets, but there was no sign of their attacker until a stick grenade flew out of the window, sailing right for them.

  “Grenade!” shouted McTeague, and while the rest of the squad dove to the ground, the Scotsman, with surprising dexterity, swatted at the incoming missile with the buttstock of his Thompson. The grenade flew up and away from them, but just as the grenade reached the apex of its arc through the air, it detonated. Lynch felt a sharp sting along the edge of his thigh, and looked back to see a trickle of blood seeping through his trouser leg. He probed the wound gingerly with his fingers and grunted with pain, but thankfully it was only a graze. Lynch got to his feet and looked around, only to notice everyone staring at McTeague, slumped against the side of the building.

  Their sergeant’s helmet had a deep dent in it the size of a man’s fist, and nearby lay the shattered wooden handle of the grenade. Blood ran freely down McTeague’s face, his eyes half-closed, mouth slack. He wasn’t moving.

  “Is he dead?” Higgins asked, aghast.

  Lynch leaned over McTeague and put his fingers to the Scotsman’s neck. He found a pulse, although it felt irregular and weak.

  “He’s alive,” he replied.

  “What now, Tom?” Nelson asked.

  For some reason, all eyes turned from McTeague to Lynch. For a moment, he was gripped with paralysis. Why were they all looking at him? Lynch wondered. Nelson and Bowen were both corporals, capable of giving orders to a handful of men. Lynch swallowed, looking down at McTeague, the indomitable Scotsman now senseless and bleeding at their feet. Losing Price a few minutes ago had been bad enough, but without their sergeant anchoring them, Lynch began to feel panic creeping into his mind, clouding his senses.

  And then, as his comrades waiting for an answer, the world suddenly snapped back into focus. “Nelson, you’re with me,” Lynch replied. “You too, White. We’re going to clear that bloody house now, so we are. Higgins, set up the Bren to cover the street. Rhys, go on now, and find us some stretcher bearers.”

  Bowen took off at a run, while Higgins and Herring set up their Bren. Lynch swapped out the magazine from his Thompson, then he, Nelson, and White ran in a crouch to the building where their attacker was hiding. It was a two-story home, built from thick timbers, the window next to them broken. White pulled a grenade from his battledress, yanked out the pin, and then tossed it through the window. The three men leaned away, and a moment later, the grenade detonated, shaking the house and spraying wood and glass out into the street.

  Not wasting any time, the three Commandos stacked up outside the door, Lynch up front. With a savage kick, he broke the door’s bolt and burst it open, then charged inside, Thompson up and ready. Sweeping from room to room, the first floor turned out to be empty, although there were signs of recent habitation. Several plates of breakfast food sat half-eaten on the dining room table, and the tea kettle was still warm.

  White pointed to a coat rack near the front door. There were several winter coats and scarves hanging from the wooden pegs. Without saying anything to the others, White pointed down, then up, and shrugged. Lynch nodded. It was unlikely the Norwegians had fled out into the winter morning without first donning their coats, and so there was a good chance they were either downstairs, in the cellar, or up on the floor above, hostages of the German rifleman.

  Lynch cautiously approached the steep, narrow staircase leading upstairs. “Oi, Fritz? We know you’re up there, you bastard!”

  A floorboard above them creaked, and Lynch heard a frightened woman’s voice say something in Norwegian. There was the sound of a slap, and a reply in harsh German. Lynch slung his Thompson and unholstered his .45 automatic, quietly racking the slide to chamber a round. He then began to ascend the stairs, treading carefully on each step to avoid making any sounds. Catching Nelson’s eye, Lynch used his hand to make a talking motion with his fingers, indicating they should keep the German distracted.

  “Listen here, you rotter!” Nelson called up to the German, raising his voice to mask any noise Lynch might make. “C’mon down with your bloody mitts in the air and we’ll let you live. Otherwise we’ll blow your guts out your back!”

  A rifle fired from above, the bullet punching through a couple of feet from where Nelson stood. Lynch heard the German curse, then fire a second time, again missing both Nelson and White, who’d moved into the corners of the room. Before the German had a chance to work the action of his rifle, Lynch bounded up the remaining stairs and shouldered open the door to the room where the German was hiding. Inside, Lynch found an older German with the insignia of a Gefreiter standing in the middle of the room. In the corner, huddling behind the bed, a mother and father crouched with their young daughter between them, hands over their ears.

  Lynch brought up his pistol, about to demand the German’s surrender, when the rifleman saw him, cursed, and charged, bringing up the butt of his Mauser. Lynch fired his pistol three times, each shot hitting the German higher in the chest, the last punching home just below the throat. The German staggered and collapsed right at Lynch’s feet, letting out a long gurgle as blood pooled around him. Lynch kicked away the rifle and kept his pistol pointed at the German before stepping further into the room, checking the corners and behind the door.

  “Are there any other Germans here?” he asked the Norwegians, pointing at the body on the floor and then pointing his finger towards the room across the landing. The father shook his head, then pointed at the German and rai
sed only one finger.

  Lynch nodded and holstered his pistol. “All clear up here!” he shouted downstairs, then glanced at the dead German. Grabbing the body by its web gear, he dragged it down the stairs and then outside. Lynch dropped the German in the snow, while across the street, a four-man stretcher team lifted McTeague's litter, the sergeant’s dented helmet resting on his chest. With a nod, Lynch watched as they staggered off towards the beach.

  The six Commandos looked at each other for a moment, then Nelson gave Lynch a punch in the shoulder. “Looks like you’re top man now, mate.”

  Lynch looked at Bowen. The sniper had made corporal two months before Lynch, and so was technically the senior non-commissioned officer, but Bowen just shook his head. Lynch knew the Welshman had no interest in being a leader, content to just practice his specialized craft and go where he was needed most. Lynch nodded to his friend, and then looked at the squad’s remaining five men.

  “Alright, boyos. Eyes to the windows and alleyways, and let’s move sharply, now. We’ve got to link up with Captain Forrester and keep pushing Jerry north.”

  The men all nodded in agreement and formed up with Lynch in front, leading his friends into battle for the first time.

  Chapter 19

  South Vaagso

  1030 Hours

  Lynch and his squad eventually reached Captain Forrester’s rallying point, situated behind three buildings across the street from the Ulvesund Hotel. Several dozen Commandos were hunkered down behind cover, preparing to advance across the street and take the hotel. As Lynch approached, he could see the drawn faces on several of the men near their commanding officer, who appeared to be in an animated conversation with Captain Linge and several other Norwegian soldiers. Lynch stepped close to a nearby corporal, a man named Finch, who was standing nearby.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Captain Giles is dead,” Finch replied, his face dour. “He was belly-shot by some bastard Jerry a little while ago, right in front of his own brother.”

  “Bloody hell!” Lynch exclaimed.

  “The captain is in a right murderous state about it,” Finch continued. “I don’t envy the Huns in that bleedin’ hotel, once he kicks the door down.”

  “When do we attack?” Lynch asked.

  “Sounded like he was waiting for your squad, maybe another. Where’s that bloody huge sergeant of yours?” Finch asked.

  Lynch shook his head. “Wounded in the head by a Jerry stick-grenade. He got taken to the beach on a litter, so he did.”

  “Hard to imagine anything taking Sergeant McTeague out of the fight,” Finch replied, shaking his head. “So, who’s leading your lot?”

  “I am, unless they attach us to someone else,” Lynch answered.

  Finch nodded. “Good luck with that, mate. The quality have been hit hard this morning. Komrower, Lloyd, Giles, your man Price...and we’ve lost a fair few sergeants as well. By the end of the day, they’ll be making us captains.”

  Lynch glared at Finch. “Don’t bloody say that, now. You’ll put a curse on the whole mission.”

  Finch glanced over to where Forrester was getting ready for the assault and unslung his Thompson. “This mission’s already cursed, mate. Better ready your men, because it’s time.”

  “Alright lads!” Captain Forrester shouted to the Commandos assembled around him. “I’ll lead first squad across while the rest of you lay down covering fire. We’ll take the doorway and hold it while second and third squads cross the street, with fourth squad and Captain Linge’s men on overwatch. Everyone mind where you fire, and most importantly, keep moving!”

  There was a murmur of acknowledgement from the Commandos around Forrester, and everyone moved into position. Lynch’s squad was third squad, so they formed up at the left-hand corner of the rightmost building, with Forrester and the men of first squad directly across from him, at the right-hand corner of the middle building. The Commando captain gave Lynch a nod and a grin, and Lynch returned the gesture with a quick salute. Then Forrester turned to the men lined up behind him.

  “C’mon lads, last man through the door buys the first round back home!”

  With a roar, the dozen Commandos rounded the corner of the building and charged across the street, weapons spitting lead. Forrester fired his Thompson from the hip as he ran, urging his men forward, while Lynch and his men formed up in the gap between the two buildings, firing over first squad and aiming for the windows along the upper stories of the hotel.

  The hotel’s defenders were not idle. Muzzles flashed from every window and even the doorway. Lynch saw one of the charging Commandos stumble, and then another. But the fusillade of bullets from the three squads giving covering fire kept the defenders’ heads down, and as Captain Forrester charged the door of the hotel, Lynch saw him pull a grenade from his webbing, rip the pin free with his teeth, and let the arming spoon fly away. Before he could throw it, however, a rifle barked from the doorway, and Forrester stumbled and collapsed just feet from his objective.

  The Commando charge suddenly faltered as their commanding officer fell, and Lynch saw Corporal Finch move to aid his captain, only to recoil back as Forrester’s body jerked horribly, a fan of crimson spraying into the air. Lynch realized Forrester had fallen on his own primed hand grenade, and it had gone off under his body.

  The Germans used the confusion of Forrester’s death to maximum effect. Their volume of fire rose quickly, and Lynch saw two more Commandos wounded before Finch finally waved the men back towards the rallying point. The surviving Commandos staggered behind cover, several aided by their squadmates. Others collapsed in obvious shock, their battledress sprayed with the shredded remains of their captain.

  “Poor bastard,” Nelson muttered next to Lynch. “Hell of a way for a fighting man to go out.”

  Bowen, still peeking out from behind the edge of their building, leaned back and shook his head. “I saw him take the bullet through the body. It was a mortal wound. If he wasn’t killed by the grenade, he would have been dead in minutes.”

  “That’s cold comfort, so it is,” Lynch said, his tone bitter.

  Gunfire erupted in the street, and Lynch cautiously poked his head out to see what was happening. He saw fourth squad, as well as second squad, dashing out into the street on the far left flank of their position, attempting to come at the hotel from an angle. Lynch saw Captain Linge and several other Commandos throwing grenades and shooting at the hotel windows, but the Germans cut loose with a heavy volume of fire, driving Linge and his men back behind cover. Thankfully, Lynch didn’t see any bodies left behind from this second assault, but he didn’t have a clear view of the retreating men from his position.

  Moments later, there was a great deal of shouting among the Commandos behind the middle building, and Lynch turned to see Captain Linge arguing with his sergeant, a man named Larsen, as well as Corporal Finch. Lynch motioned for his men to stay in cover and then dashed across the space between the two buildings, his movement drawing inaccurate fire from the Germans in the hotel. Lynch heard the crack of Bowen’s Lee-Enfield, but he had no idea whether or not is friend had scored a kill. He approached the arguing Commandos and saluted Linge, who barely acknowledged it before turning back to argue with Finch.

  “We are attacking again, whether you like, or no!” Linge shouted in accented English.

  “With respect, sir,” Finch replied, “We should send a runner to find the lieutenant-colonel, and maybe call up a mortar team. That hotel is too heavily guarded.”

  “Your captain would attack again, if he here, and I dead in the street,” Linge shot back. “We press on, be bold, kill the Germans! I am to attack again, and any British wish to avenge their dead captain, they come with us!”

  Several of the Commandos around Linge let out cheers of agreement, but the majority looked uneasy, and Lynch saw Finch’s mouth draw into a thin line with disappointment. “You’re the ranking officer, Captain. We will follow your lead.”

  The men
reformed into their squads, with Linge taking Forrester’s place in leading first squad. This time, it was agreed that all four squads would charge at once, with the hope that the momentum of the attack would carry them forward to victory. Lynch could see the grim determination on Linge’s face, and he was reminded that this operation was very personal for the Norwegian captain. The civilians hiding in homes all around them were his countrymen, and Vaagso was his homeland. To Linge, these Germans weren’t just the enemy, they were invaders who needed to be driven from Norway by any means necessary.

  Across the way, Linge cocked back the bolt on his Thompson and edged to the corner of the building, then turned his head to look back at the men behind him.

  “Til Valhall!” Linge shouted, the war cry picked up by his men. The British behind them simply cheered, and Linge charged out from behind the edge of the building. Immediately, there was a single shot from a Mauser rifle, and the Norwegian captain jerked with the impact of a bullet. Linge stumbled for a moment before regaining his balance, and he staggered towards the street, firing his Thompson wildly.

  Sergeant Larsen followed, not wishing to abandon him despite Linge’s reckless charge, and as soon as the men of first squad filed past, Lynch motioned for his men to follow, and they ran out from around the building after the others. Gunfire filled the air as dozens of Commandos fired on the hotel, but the building’s stout walls and the accurate fire of the defenders slowed the charge, causing men to duck and waver as bullets snapped and whined around them. Lynch saw Linge stagger as he was shot again, only feet from the body of Captain Forrester, and Larsen grabbed his captain and dragged him up against the entrance to the hotel, momentarily safe from the defenders’ fire. A stick grenade flew out of a third-story window and exploded nearby, wounding several Commandos, and another was tossed aside at the last second by a man from second squad with exceptional reflexes.