Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “Better keep your heads down,” the lance-corporal told them. “There’s at least a dozen Jerries in that factory, and they’ve got a machine gun. We’ve had a couple lads hit already. These fellows seem rather keen on keeping us away.”

  Lynch peeked around a corner of the building for a moment, assessing the factory, about a hundred yards away from where they hid. Two smaller buildings were situated between them and the factory, neither building large enough to provide suitable cover to twenty men.

  “If we’ve got to blow the sodding thing up anyway, why not drop some bleedin’ mortar rounds on it?” Nelson asked. “Or get on the wireless, and ask one of the destroyers to knock it to pieces.”

  The lance-corporal shook his head and pointed to the Norwegian baker. “This old fellow says there’s a bunch of locals held hostage inside, including his daughter. We can’t just blast the damn thing with civilians inside, now can we? Wouldn’t be proper.”

  Lynch cursed. For the most part, they’d been extremely lucky, with only one Norwegian that they knew of killed during the attack, an unfortunate casualty during the opening bombardment. By and large, the Germans had been reluctant to use the civilian population as hostages or living shields, preferring that the Norwegians just stay out of the way. But this group was different - not only did they have civilians with them, it was a probably a significant number.

  Lynch turned to the Norwegian soldier. “Ask him how many factory workers would normally be in there today.”

  The interpreter spoke to the baker in their native tongue, and the older man, frantic with fear, rattled on for some time before he was cut off with a pleading gesture.

  “He says somewhere around two dozen, and he says again, his daughter is in there with the Germans. He begs us to save her.”

  “Ask him how many guards normally watch over the factory,” Lynch replied.

  The interpreter and the baker spoke again.

  “He says only one, a young man with a rifle. He thinks these men are different. He says they are the new soldiers, men with flowers on their shirts. They came here a few days ago. He says these are not nice men, that they made even the Germans who guarded the town nervous.”

  “Must be the same bloody rotters we’ve seen here and there today. Tough fighters, that lot,” Nelson said, a begrudging note of respect in his voice.

  Lynch nodded. Among the Germans they’d encountered, some wore different insignia, with the Edelweiss flower embroidered into their uniforms. He dimly remembered some intelligence report that stated this was an indicator of any number of elite German units, possibly some kind of Jaeger or “hunter” unit, which in the German military meant light infantry. These men, Lynch worried, might be as skillful and tenacious as any Commando squad.

  Looking over his shoulder, Lynch realized all of his men were waiting for him to make a decision. He’d always relied on Price and McTeague to come up with the plans, and for men like him and Nelson and Bowen to carry them out. Lynch tried to imagine what Price would do in this situation, how he would outsmart and outfight the Germans.

  “Rhys, at what distance could you take out the machine gunner, if you be having the right angle?” Lynch asked.

  Bowen went prone at the corner of the building with his sniper rifle, then eased around the corner, peering at the upper level of the factory through the weapon’s scope. He studied the factory for a few seconds before getting to his feet again.

  “Two, maybe two hundred and fifty yards at most. I’m only going to have a very small target area,” Bowen replied.

  Lynch nodded and turned to the Norwegian soldier. “How well does this baker know the factory?”

  “He told me he used to work there before he injured his leg. His daughter took his place,” the interpreter replied.

  “Would he be able to sketch out the interior for us?” Lynch asked.

  The interpreter had a short conversation with the baker. “He says he can do that, yes. He worked there for many years.”

  “And does he know what the shoreline is like between here and that factory? Is it passable on foot?”

  The interpreter asked and the baker nodded, pointing in the direction of the fjord.

  “He says he does. It is steep, but if the tides are right, there is a narrow band of rocks by the waterline. The rocks will be wet and slippery, very dangerous to walk along, but as children he and others would explore them, so it can be done.”

  Lynch peered around the corner of the building again, his mind drawing lines and figuring angles. It will be risky, to be sure, he thought to himself, but they don’t pay us to do the easy work.

  Finally, Lynch turned to Corporal Finch. “How would you like to play hide-and-seek with a machine gun?” he asked with a grin.

  Chapter 24

  The Factory

  1145 Hours

  Arna sat watching the Germans as they waited for the inevitable British attack. The machine gun in the upper level had fired several times recently, as had some of the men with rifles. Perhaps twenty minutes ago, three Germans, looking quite disheveled, had come into the factory. Two of them were soldiers, while the third wore the uniform of the German navy. Arna thought she’d seen them around at one time or another, although they were so covered in dirt and grime, their uniforms sodden and torn, she really couldn’t be sure. Their leader had spoken at some length to the blond German in charge of the factory’s defenders, and it was clear from the bitter tone in his voice that the battle for South Vaagso was not going well.

  Eventually, the three newcomers had settled in to help with the defence of the factory, taking ammunition from wooden boxes the Germans had brought when they’d first arrived that morning. One of the three had gone upstairs after handing his rifle to the young man in the naval uniform. The sailor was ordered to stand with the other riflemen near one of the windows, while the third newcomer, their leader, had continued to talk in a low voice with the blond German, borrowing his field glasses and looking to the south of the factory for minutes at a time, pointing in one direction or another.

  Now, the Germans lined the southern and western walls of the factory, peering out from around the window frames, rifles and machine pistols in hand. Arna leaned over towards the foreman and put her lips near his ear.

  “Did you hear what they were just saying?” she asked.

  The foreman nodded. “The British are only a few houses away, but they aren’t attacking. The Germans think the British know we are here, and they don’t want to hurt us in the attack, so they are holding back.”

  Arna sighed. “That is good to hear.”

  “Yes, let us hope that whoever is leading them, does not think destroying this building is worth our lives. The British have warships, and could destroy this place in the blink of an eye.”

  Suddenly, one of the riflemen shouted and pointed to the south-west, and the blond man raised his field glasses and looked for a moment before shouting upstairs to the men with the machine gun. Almost instantly, the roar of that terrible weapon filled the air for a half-second, pausing for a moment before firing a longer burst, and then a third. There was no return fire from the British, and Arna wondered for a moment if the machine gun had killed them all, when there was a single gunshot from somewhere outside, and the thump of a body hitting the floor above them.

  Immediately, the Germans began firing their rifles, although it was clear they had no idea where the single gunshot had come from. After a few seconds, the two leaders shouted enough to get the men to stop firing. Once all the guns were silenced, the blond man hollered a question up the stairs, and was answered by a voice choked with emotion. The blond German slammed his fist into the bannister and cursed loudly, his face contorted with anger. He snarled a command back up the stairs, then moved back to the windows along the south-west corner of the factory.

  Whoever had been shot, Arna knew the man must be dead. Looking up at the ceiling above her, she saw a dark line growing between two boards, and a droplet of blood landed
with a splatter a few metres away, followed by another. Although she worked in a factory that processed thousands of dead fish every day, Arna suddenly felt very nauseated, bile rising in her throat at the thought of a dead man’s blood dripping onto the factory floor in front of her.

  There was another gunshot from outside, and a man upstairs cried out in pain. Before any of the Germans took action, several more shots punched through the southern wall, but they were too high and missed the defenders. The Germans responded by firing back, and for a couple of minutes, the two sides exchanged gunfire, seemingly without any effect. After a while, Arna noticed that none of the bullets coming through the wooden walls of the factory were lower than the top of the window frames, well above the heads of the Germans.

  “The British are missing on purpose,” she whispered to the foreman.

  The man nodded. “They’re keeping the Germans distracted. The question is, why?”

  Arna began to feel a sense of growing apprehension. Something was going to happen soon, some trick or manoeuvre on the part of the British to take the Germans by surprise. Making use of the Germans’ focus on the attackers outside the factory, Arna shifted herself closer to the table near her a few centimetres at a time, until she was able to surreptitiously grab the wooden mallet leaning against the table leg and tuck it under her leather apron.

  “What are you doing?” Una hissed at her, eyes wide with fear. The older woman was trembling so hard, Arna feared she was going into shock.

  “I’m making sure I am ready, in case something happens,” Arna replied.

  “What do you mean, in case something happens? What do you think is going to happen?” Una choked out the last few words, as she clutched at Arna’s hand and buried her face in the younger woman’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,” Arna whispered, patting Una’s arm reassuringly.

  But out of the corner of her eye, Arna saw the door leading to the basement ease open a few centimetres.

  Arna took a deep breath, reached under her apron, and took hold of the wooden mallet.

  Chapter 25

  The Factory

  1200 Hours

  Lynch had to admit, he was surprised the plan had succeeded so far. While the others had captured the attention of the Germans, Lynch and his four remaining squad-mates had carefully navigated the wet, slimy rocks and freezing surf, sneaking unseen along the shoreline well below the edge of the escarpment. They’d left behind helmets, overcoats, and any other gear which might slow them down or make any noise. Further, Herring had taken Bowen’s purloined MP-38, while Higgins was carrying McTeague’s Thompson, which he’d worn slung across his back ever since the sergeant had been wounded.

  “The sergeant will want it back once he’s recovered,” Higgins had said at the time. “I just want to make sure it doesn’t get left behind.”

  The five men had reached the base of the factory, where a lower level was supported on short pylons, well above the high tide mark. There was a heavy wooden door there, but the wood was wet and half-rotted, and a bit of prying with Herring’s sword-bayonet managed to pull the bolt out of the wood and open the door. Once inside the basement, the Commandos had proceeded up the stairs, with Lynch in the lead, trusting the gunfire in the factory to hide any sounds the stairs might make.

  Now, Lynch stood at the top of the stairs and slowly eased the door open a couple of inches. From the angle the opening afforded him, Lynch saw a number of factory workers sitting with their backs against the northern wall. Some had their knees drawn up, faces hidden and arms over their heads, while others watched the Germans or prayed with their eyes shut. But one of the workers, a young, blonde-haired woman, was looking right at him.

  Lynch froze, fearing she would cry out in fear or shout an alarm. But instead, the girl gave him a small nod, which Lynch returned. The girl then held her hand against her thigh, out of sight from the others, and showed Lynch two fingers, before pointing up towards the upper level. Once Lynch nodded in acknowledgement, the girl flashed five fingers, and then four, before pointing towards the opposite wall. Lynch nodded again, then eased the door closed until it just touched the frame, before turning to give orders to his men using gestures and hand signals.

  Two Germans, Upper Level. Nine Germans, Ground Level, Left Side. Civilians, Ground Level, Right Side. Higgins, Herring, Upper Level. Nelson, White, On Me, Ground Level. Exit Doorway, Push Ahead, Engage Left Side. No Grenades, Guns Only.

  Each of his men nodded and acknowledged his commands. Lynch turned back to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out again. The girl was still there, and she gave him another small nod, her chin quivering in fright. Lynch gave her a wink and a quick smile, then eased the door open and stepped through at a crouch, his Thompson raised and ready.

  One by one, the five members of the assault team exited the basement door. Higgins and Herring peeled off and to the left, heading towards the stairs leading to the upper level. Lynch made it a dozen paces, past the end of a conveyer belt covered in dead fish, when a German in a Kriegsmarine uniform turned and saw Lynch across the room. Eyes growing wide, the young man spun, trying to bring his rifle around and to his shoulder, but the muzzle of the rifle caught on the window frame. The sailor’s mouth opened as he prepared to shout a warning.

  Lynch fired a three-round burst from his Thompson, and the sailor’s head came apart, blood and brain matter spraying the wall behind him. The body jerked once, then collapsed in a boneless heap, the rifle clattering to the floor. Several voices cried out at once, in German and Norwegian, and suddenly the air was filled with flying lead.

  Lynch knew from experience that the worst thing he could do was to freeze and take cover. Pushing ahead in a low crouch, his Thompson up and moving wherever he looked, he got the drop on another German who came around a canning press at a run, rifle still pointing at the ground. The German managed to fire a round into the floor between Lynch’s feet before the Commando cut him down with a rising burst that stitched the German from belly to throat.

  The top of a stack of tin cans exploded to Lynch’s left, spraying him with pungent fish oil. On the other side of the stack, Lynch saw a German rifleman drop his rifle and pick up a stick grenade, tugging the priming loop hanging from the butt of the grenade’s wooden handle. Lynch screamed “Grenade!” out of reflex, but an instant later, a Thompson from behind and to his left chattered, and the German was driven back against the southern wall of the factory, the grenade tumbling from his hand.

  Lynch dropped to the ground, putting the bottom of the stack of cans between him and the grenade. The explosion tore the stack apart, quarts of fish oil soaking his battledress and sliming his Thompson. Lynch tried to stand, but the oil made the wooden floor of the factory too slippery and he fell, driving his knee into the wood. Lynch cursed and struggled to his feet, just as a Mauser bullet smashed the oil-soaked Thompson from his hand. Lynch staggered away, his hand stinging with pain, and fumbled for his pistol as he sought cover behind a large piece of motionless canning machinery.

  Above him, Lynch heard long, repeated bursts from automatic weapons and a single, answering pistol shot before a final burst ended whatever resistance the Germans might have offered. Hoping that pistol bullet didn’t find a home in one of his men, Lynch performed a brass-check on his .45 automatic, then spun out to look for the German who’d fired at him.

  There was no one in sight, so Lynch dropped to his knees and peered under a heavy workbench. A pair of legs wearing feldgrau trousers moved slowly towards where he crouched, and Lynch lined up on them with his pistol and fired three shots, rapid-fire. One shot missed, but the other two shattered the German’s right knee and punched a hole in the man’s thigh. The German screamed and dropped to the ground, still clutching his rifle, and he fired a shot at Lynch that went wild, blowing through the workbench from below and sending splinters of wood flying through the air. Lynch steadied his aim and fired a single shot, drilling the German through the eye.

/>   That makes four, Lynch thought to himself, but where are the other five? A short burst and a triumphal shout from White off to his left signaled another dead German, and he was sure he’d heard Nelson fire several bursts, which might have accounted for more. Lynch turned and looked at his Thompson lying on the factory floor, but left it be when he saw a hole drilled clean through its receiver by a Mauser bullet. Acting quickly, he swapped out the magazine in his pistol with a fresh one, giving him a full eight rounds in the weapon. Then he began to move, circling to his right towards where the hostages were.

  It didn’t take Lynch very long to make his way to the northern wall of the factory, and he turned right, moving around a large stack of crates. He spotted a blond-haired Gefreiter holding a machine pistol, the muzzle of his weapon pointing into the midst of the factory workers. Lynch centered his pistol’s sights on the German’s face, but hesitated in taking the shot. If he was carrying a rifle, or even his Thompson, he would have risked firing, but the German was a good fifteen yards away, and only needed to twitch his trigger finger in order to kill or wound a half-dozen innocent civilians.

  “Nicht schiessen!” Lynch called out, using some of his very limited German vocabulary.

  “Hande hoch, Tommy!” the German replied, jabbing the muzzle of his weapon towards the hostages.

  Lynch shook his head, then shouted at White to stand down, as the Commando stepped out from behind a large mechanical press and into in the middle of the standoff.

  The German shouted again at Lynch, something he didn’t understand. One of the Norwegians, an older man, leaned forward a little. “He says if you don’t give him safe conduct to the docks and allow him to take a boat, he’ll shoot us all.”

  “Tell him the navy has already destroyed all the fishing trawlers,” Lynch said. “And we’ve got men to the north of town, so he can’t escape that way, either. If he surrenders, we’ll put him on a ship and take him to England.”