He didn’t know how many of the hotel’s defenders had escaped the final assault. Egger was the only member of his squad whom Metz had seen retreating from the hotel, and though he hoped they’d all made it out alive, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were the only two left. He’d heard a lot of gunfire from the direction of the hotel even after they’d fled, and he morbidly wondered if the Tommies were shooting prisoners and the wounded. He didn’t think the British would be that barbaric, but on the other hand, after the casualties they’d suffered in taking the hotel, Metz would not be surprised if they were in no mood to accept surrender.
The four Germans continued on past two other buildings before Leutnant Sebelin made it clear he could go no further. Egger used the butt of his rifle to break the lock on a nearby door, and the four men stumbled into a two-story home. The occupants, a family of four, huddled in the corner of their kitchen, sitting on the floor with their hands over their heads. Metz gestured towards the front door with the barrel of his machine pistol, and after a moment the Norwegians figured it out, fleeing their home with all haste.
“We need to get him up onto something flat, so we can see his injury,” said Gerver, Sebelin’s aide.
Egger moved to the kitchen table and swept it clear with the barrel of his rifle, while Metz slung his MP-38 and helped Gerver lift Sebelin onto the table, the officer grunting in pain through clenched teeth. Metz drew his combat knife and cut away the uniform around the naval officer’s bloodied left side, exposing glistening blood oozing from the entry and exit wounds. The shot had hit low, perhaps below Sebelin’s kidney, entering through his back and exiting right above the waistline.
Metz looked up at Gerver and shook his head. “It doesn’t look good,” he said quietly.
“Will he live?” Gerver asked.
Sebelin waved his hand in a weak gesture. “I am a dead man, I know this already. You men should go now.”
Metz pointed at the wound. “Even if we get him to the Tommies, they will need a surgeon to repair this. If we wait for reinforcements to arrive from up north, the Leutnant will not survive.”
Gerver turned and glanced towards the front door. “So we take him to the British and ask for aid. He’s a Kriegsmarine officer, they will be obliged to give him medical attention.”
Metz held his tongue. Sebelin was a Leutnant zur See, little better than an ensign in the British naval rankings, and the most junior of the German officers in South Vaagso. If Gerver expected the Tommies to treat Sebelin like some Germanic Horatio Nelson, the young man was very much mistaken, especially with a number of wounded men on their own side to save first.
Sebelin shook his head, face pale and sweaty with shock. “Nein. Even if they were to take me, it would mean one of you would have to surrender as well, in order to tell them where I was. I can’t have it. You must continue on and do what you can to defend the town from the British. If we keep delaying them in their push towards the factories, it will give the Luftwaffe more time to respond.”
Gerver looked shocked. “But sir, I cannot leave you here! I am your aide, that would not be proper.”
Sebelin struggled to raise his head. “I am still in command, am I not? You have your orders. Continue north, rally what men you find, and defend the factories against the British. Hold them as long as you can, and wait for reinforcements.”
Metz saw Gerver hesitate for a moment, and then nod. Sebelin pulled his Luger from its holster and handed it to Gerver, who was otherwise unarmed, having dropped his rifle while trying to assist Sebelin after he was wounded.
Metz pointed to the satchel of grenades Egger was carrying. “Give those to him as well,” he told Egger. “Gerver, you’ve just been seconded to the Heer.”
It took a few minutes to make Sebelin comfortable. Egger tucked blankets under the wounded man’s feet to help elevate his legs, and pillowed his head with several dish towels. Metz used some warm water from the kettle on the stove to wash Sebelin’s wound, and he bound it as best he could with a bedsheet torn into strips. Several other blankets were placed over Sebelin to keep him warm, and Gerver gave him some water to drink.
As the three men prepared to leave, Sebelin turned to Metz and reached out a weak hand, which Metz took. “I always imagined death on the bridge of a warship,” Sebelin whispered. “Sailing into a fight against terrible odds, guns firing, alarms wailing. I did not expect to die while bundled up like an infant on some fisherman’s dining table.”
“Our lives are pledged to the Fatherland,” Metz replied. “We give them up when we are asked, as dearly as we can, wherever they are needed most.”
“Auf Wiedersehen, Feldwebel.” Sebelin said, and let go of Metz’s hand. “Gerver, a moment, if you please.”
Metz nodded towards the door, and Egger followed him outside, their weapons at the ready. Once more in the cold morning air, they heard the sound of gunfire in all directions, although there wasn’t anyone in sight from either side of the battle.
“How much ammunition do you have?” Metz asked.
“Twenty rounds, plus four in the rifle,” Egger replied. “I put the spare magazine in the pistol, the other has three rounds remaining.”
Metz nodded. “I am down to one full magazine. We need to get somewhere we can resupply.”
Gerver emerged from the house, wiping at his cheeks with the cuff of his sleeve. He shut the door behind him, and with his belt knife, he scratched WOUNDED INSIDE across the paint of the front door. Then, he pulled Sebelin’s pistol from his belt, checked for a round in the chamber, and nodded to Metz and Egger.
“Gentleman, what now?” Gerver asked.
Metz had been thinking of what to do since they’d fled from the hotel. It was a long shot, but it might help turn the tide of the fight.
“Back at the hotel, Egger and I talked of finding another machine gun. With an MG-34 and a strong defensive position, we could do a great deal to slow down the Tommies.”
“Do you know where to find one?” Gerver asked.
“The Panzerbefelswagen. It is in a large shed not far from here. It mounts a machine gun, and even if it isn’t road-worthy, we can pull the weapon and the Panzer’s ammunition load and bring them with us. Then we find a good firing position and prepare as best we can.”
An exploding grenade a few houses away caused Gerver to start. “Do you think it is worth the risk?”
Metz tapped the receiver of his MP-38. “This is the last magazine I have, and Egger is down to only twenty-four rounds for his rifle. We’re not much use as we are, but with that machine gun, we’re worth an entire rifle squad.”
Gerver finally nodded, and without further discussion, they began to move in the direction of the shed. Metz took the lead, with Gerver in the middle and Egger providing security to the rear. Seeing how shaken Gerver was at the moment, Metz grew worried the sailor might get startled and accidentally shoot him in the back with the Luger.
“Take care to keep your finger off the trigger, bitte,” Metz whispered behind him.
Gerver took his finger out from within the pistol’s trigger guard. “I’ve never been in a battle before,” he admitted.
“Just do as I say, when I say it, and you’ll be fine,” Metz replied.
More than once, the three men ducked behind a building or crouched behind a snowbank as British soldiers moved past, and it was clear the battle was overtaking them. Once, a group of five Gebirgsjägers ran by, breath steaming in the air, as their Gefreiter belted out orders. Metz thought of calling out to them, and then decided against it. Now was not the time to try and assume command of unfamiliar men and contradict whatever orders they might be under at the moment.
Eventually they reached the shed, a wood and stone building with a set of large barn doors. Rather than finding it unoccupied, Metz saw one of the doors was halfway open, and there were men in khaki uniforms guarding the doorway.
“Scheisse,” Metz cursed. He turned to the men behind him. “The blasted Tommies beat us here.”
“One of the locals must have told them,” Metz answered. “I am sure the Tommies asked if there were any Panzers or armoured cars in town, and someone directed them here.”
Gerver shook his head. “The civilians had no idea that thing is little better than a staff car. It’s hardly a proper Panzer.”
“Maybe, but it is proof against rifle fire and machine guns, which is more than you can say about most of these wood-framed homes. I’ll take a centimetre of armour plate over a fisherman’s home any day,” Metz replied.
“So what do we do?” Gerver asked.
Before Metz could answer, there was a shout from inside the shed, and a British soldier ran out, urging the other men with him to run. They got only a few paces away when there was a tremendous explosion, and the shed blew apart, large pieces of wood and stone flying through the air dozens of metres. Metz ducked back as a fist-sized piece of stone smashed into the corner of the building where he’d been standing, and a metre-long support timber cartwheeled through the alleyway where they crouched.
Metz huddled in a tight ball, arms over his head, as debris continued to rain down for several seconds. When the danger seemed over, he slowly uncoiled himself from his crouch and peered around the corner of the building. The shed was completely obliterated, and of the Panzer, there remained only twisted fragments of its chassis, with broken track links, bogie wheels, and armour plates littering the snow for twenty metres around. Of the Tommies, one was clearly dead, a spear-like length of wood sticking out of the man’s back as he lay face-down in the snow. Two others were also down and moving weakly as the other half-dozen members of the demolitions squad tended to their injuries.
Egger and Gerver crawled forward and stared for a long moment, neither man saying anything, until they all moved back into the alleyway.
“What do we do now, Feldwebel?” Egger asked.
Metz brushed a bit of snow from the open bolt of his weapon. “We continue north, and try to find a strong pocket of resistance.”
And with that, the three soldiers set out through the maze of buildings, moving to the north at the double.
Chapter 23
South Vaagso
1130 Hours
After taking the Ulvesund Hotel, the Commandos’ advance stalled while cold, weary men gathered the dead, tended to the wounded, and restocked their ammunition. The two Troops assigned to assault the town had not only taken heavy casualties among the ranks, they’d lost both their captains, and almost all their other officers were either killed or wounded. In short, their combat effectiveness was severely diminished, and there was still a lot of work to be done in order to eliminate the German resistance in South Vaagso.
Fortunately, the battle for the island of Maaloy had been won with few casualties on the British side, and the Commandos there were still fresh. Responding to a request for reinforcements from Lieutenant-Colonel Durnford-Slater, Major Churchill dispatched Captain Peter Young and half of his No. 6 Troop back to the mainland in order to add fresh men to the fight. In addition, Brigadier Hayden released the floating reserve, consisting of two Troops assigned to the mission from 2 Commando. With the manpower at hand more than doubled, the Commandos began a relentless push north through the town, systematically clearing each building they encountered.
Lynch was given temporary command of No. 4 Troop and the two dozen men still in fighting shape. He reformed them into four sections of six men, with himself personally leading one, and Nelson, Bowen, and Finch each leading one of the others. Bowen refused at first, but Lynch handed his friend a captured MP-38 and a pouch full of magazines.
“Rhys, I need men I can trust leading these lads,” Lynch said, “and to be sure, I can’t think of a man I trust more than you.”
“What about this brute? Didn’t think you trusted him all that much,” Bowen said with a grin, pointing his thumb at Nelson, who stood with his arms crossed, scowling at the smaller Welshman.
“Aye, well, he likes breaking down doors and killing Germans. That makes up for his many other problems,” Lynch replied with a grin.
“Oi, what bloody problems you on about?” Nelson growled.
“That’s a long list, me boyo,” Lynch answered, punching his friend in the shoulder. “And we’ve got a town full of Germans to kill, so we do.”
In addition to the other Commando troops, aid came to the assault force from an unexpected quarter - the citizens of South Vaagso. As the British pushed further north and freed more territory from the German defenders, the Norwegians began to emerge from hiding. While many simply moved south to escape the fighting, some volunteered their services to the British, from fetching food and water to helping tend to the wounded. A few of the Norwegians even volunteered to act as guides for the assault teams. Soon, many squads were accompanied by a civilian, often paired with one of the late Captain Linge’s men to help translate. While the Commandos refused to arm the civilians, some were allowed to carry satchels of hand grenades, great numbers of which were being consumed as the assault teams cleared the town.
Despite the increase in manpower, and the assistance of the civilian population, the fighting continued as fiercely as ever, because while the Germans lacked coordination, they made up for it in sheer determination. As the British continued to move north, the cries for orderlies and stretcher-bearers were heard every couple of minutes, as entrenched Germans caused casualties with grenades, rifles, and machine pistols. A number of men were killed or badly wounded by sniper fire coming from second story windows, or from Germans who’d moved west, up into the hills around the town. While many of these defenders were eventually killed, either through small arms fire, mortars, or in some few cases, the firepower of the Royal Navy destroyers moving up the fjord, few Germans gave up without a fight.
Lynch found himself watching helplessly from the corner of a building as a sniper kept Captain Young’s party, including the lieutenant-colonel himself, pinned down in a small, exposed wood yard. Several men already lay sprawled on the frozen ground, shot down by the sniper, and try as they might, no one had so far been able to get a clear shot at the German, who was holed up in the second story of a house some distance away.
Lynch wasn’t able to hear what was said, but he observed Young and Durnford-Slater in huddled conversation with Sergeant Herbert, one of Young’s senior NCOs. Nodding, Herbert moved at a crouch to a small shed nearby, covering ground quickly and staying behind cover as much as possible. The sniper took several shots at Herbert, but the sergeant was careful enough to make it to the shed without injury. Lynch saw him emerge a moment later with a sizable can, the sort used to carry around petrol. With the way Herbert carried the can, Lynch knew it was full, or nearly so, and Herbert was inching his way through the wood yard, always moving closer to the house containing the sniper.
The captain cupped his hands to his mouth. “Covering fire, lads! Give ‘em everything you’ve got!” he shouted, loud enough for all nearby to hear him.
Without hesitation, Lynch joined many others in firing on the house. Dozens of bullets sent splinters of wood flying in all directions, and under this weight of fire, the German was unable to get a shot off at Herbert. The sergeant ran up to the side of the house, bashed in the window with the butt of his Thompson, threw in the can of petrol, and followed it with a hand grenade. A moment later the grenade exploded, blowing out the window next to Herbert. The detonation was followed a moment later with a great whoosh of flame, as the petrol ignited and set the entire ground floor of the building on fire. A nearby Bren gunner stitched the upper floor of the house with a magazine of .303 calibre bullets as Herbert made his escape, and within moments, the house was a blazing inferno. The trapped party waited until flames licked the window frames in the upper story before moving out from the wood yard and continuing with the advance.
Lynch looked over to where Bowen stood a few feet away, watching through a nearby window. The Welshman looked nauseated,
and his knuckles were white on the stock of his rifle.
“He was probably dead before the fire got him,” Lynch said to his friend.
“Probably,” Bowen repeated without conviction. “It’s still a bad way for a man to go.”
Lynch grunted. “We’ve seen a lot of dead men, so we have. Are there any good ways?”
Bowen gave Lynch a withering look. “You know better than that, Tom. Rather a clean shot through the heart or the head with this,” he patted his sniper rifle, “than trapped inside a burning building.”
Just then, a sergeant from 2 Commando approached them. “Which one of you is in charge ‘ere?”
Lynch straightened up and saluted. “That’d be me, Sergeant.”
“Your name Lynch?” the sergeant asked.
“Aye, so it is,” Lynch replied.
The sergeant hooked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Looks like you’n yours are rotating up to the front of the line. Factory along the docks needs taking. Bunch of Jerries locked up tight inside it, taking shots at anyone gets near.”
With a sigh, Lynch pushed away from the wall he was leaning against. “C’mon Rhys, looks like they need the best men in South Vaagso to get the job done proper, so they do.”
“No boot in my bollocks, mate,” the sergeant said with a sneer. “Those bleedin’ Huns have a machine gun, and they’re tucked up into the upper level of the factory. Going to be a right holiday digging them out. Have at it.”
Lynch and his men, now twenty strong due to casualties along the way, moved towards the northernmost point of the Commandos’ advance. A young lance-corporal was hiding behind a building with several men and a civilian, an older man in a baker’s apron, favoring one of his legs. The Norwegian was pleading with one of Captain Linge’s men, who was listening and nodding. As Lynch approached, the lance-corporal motioned for everyone to stay out of sight from the factory.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 28
