Lynch gave a small shrug. “If that was the plan, it’d have happened last night, to be sure. Little point in marching us all over bloody France, now is there? Bloody Germans are too efficient for that, so they are.”
Herring shot a questioning look towards Le Chasseur, who was busy talking to Eldred and Stambridge. “What d’you suppose drives a man like that? To spend the last two years almost always on his own, slogging about the woods, no mates to watch your back? Seems bloody lonesome to me.”
“Some men just take to it, I imagine,” Lynch replied. “And having mates with you doesn’t always mean more safety. Bouchard had what amounted to a troop of Maquis with him, and they all wound up in the bloody ground. At least, most of them did.”
“From what you told me, you and the others, the Butcher was a bleedin’ madman, did more to get his lot killed than the bloody Germans did.”
Lynch shook his head. “I used to think a lot worse of Bouchard, but I’ve grown soft on him since we last talked at the wedding, back in December. I think the poor sod knows his soul has a lot to answer for, and I think he’ll do what he can to make things right.”
“Still, the blighter was out to slit Jerry throats after his wife and young’un were done in by the Boche. A thing like that’d drive anyone barmy. But this one here,” Herring jerked his head towards their guide, “I’m still not sure he’s on the level.”
A quiet command from Sergeant McTeague got everyone to their feet, and the men began to form up by squads again. Lynch gave Herring a slap on the shoulder.
“That’s the great thing about the army, Nigel,” Lynch said, grinning. “You don’t have to be sure of anything, you just need to do as you’re told.”
“Bloody hell,” Nigel muttered, “you’re taking to that third stripe a might too easily.”
As Nigel walked away, Lynch glanced down at the three white stripes on his sleeve, the insignia of a lance-sergeant. Not as easily as you might think, he thought to himself, before shifting his rucksack to sit better on his shoulders and moving to take his place at the head of his squad.
Chapter 6
Near the Chateau
March 27th, 1700 Hours
Kurzman froze, nothing moving except his eyes. He scanned the treeline in the distance, breaking down his field of view by sections and analyzing each before moving on to the next. A minute passed, and then another, and he didn’t hear the sound again. With near-infinite patience, Kurzmann waited, the soft tick tick tick of his wristwatch uncommonly loud in the quiet.
It had been the sound of a thin branch breaking under pressure, of that he was sure. It was a distinct sound, different than something falling onto a forest floor, or branches scraping against each other in the cool breeze of late afternoon. It was the sound made by an incautious man as he brushed against a dead tree limb, a sound too clear and precise for a branch already laying on the ground. And no animal would have made that sound, for there were few big enough to cause it, and those would have been too cautious in the first place.
No, Kurzmann knew there was someone in that treeline. His hunter’s instincts, his soldier’s gut feeling, told him the sound meant he was being watched. But he didn’t see any movement, any glint of sunlight off of metal or glass, any unnatural lines or shapes. Alone, with only the P-38 holstered at his side, he had little intention of engaging whoever was out there in the trees. Likely, it was one of the locals, perhaps a farmer looking for an animal that had gone missing, or maybe someone who, like him, was enjoying the day’s bright sun and pleasant weather. If he approached or called out, they’d likely flee in terror, afraid of what a German wearing SS insignia might do to them.
But a tendril of fear coiled in Kurzmann’s gut, because there was another possibility. He knew of several Partisan attacks along the more northern coastal regions of France over the last year. Some of them had been supported by British Commando forces, while others were carried out by radical elements of the French underground. The infamous ‘Butcher of Calais’ had been captured by an Einsatzkommando unit last summer, but not long after, a Luftwaffe pilot had been assassinated in the town of Abbeville. Rumor had it the Maquis had barged into a restaurant where the fighter ace had been celebrating with his squadron mates, and the whole lot had been machine-gunned where they sat, the ace’s head blown away with a shotgun. A fitting reprisal had been carried out to punish the townsfolk for what’d happened, but that did not mean there weren’t those in and around the Lustschloss who wouldn’t mind seeing Kurzmann lose his head to a farmer’s shotgun.
There was still no movement or sound from the treeline, and Kurzmann finally relaxed a little. If someone had intended to kill him, they’d have taken the shot by now. Slowly, carefully, he took one step backwards, and then another, eventually reaching a point where he had enough concealment between him and the trees to move without being seen. Kurzmann then turned and began moving at a swift pace towards the chateau, covering ground as quickly as he could and still maintain concealment and quiet.
Half an hour later, he left the woods and came onto the open ground surrounding the chateau. As was typical, there was a game of football being played behind the chateau, while another half-dozen men sat on the grass, drinking and watching the scrum, shouting encouragement or insults as the game progressed. Further off, near the barn, a pair of riders were returning on their horses, moving at a fast canter and calling out to the chateau’s stable hand. Near the gate to the chateau grounds, more servants were unloading catered food and wine from the back of an old civilian delivery truck. While the chateau staff did prepare meals for the men during the day, the evening meals and the daily resupplies of liquor arrived in late afternoon from the nearest town.
One of the sentries near the gate spotted Kurzmann immediately, and the young SS rifleman gave him a wave. The teenager was still limping from the injury that’d relegated him to this light duty assignment, and although Kurzmann didn’t remember his name, he remembered the young man telling him the wound had been from a Popov machine gun. As he approached the chateau, Kurzmann struggled to remember the young man’s name. As one of the senior non-commissioned officers currently staying at the chateau, it wouldn’t do to set a poor example. It was the job of men like him to look after the younger and less experienced ranks, and one of the best ways to make them feel like they were cared for was to use their names. It made the soldier think he was special, that he was recognized as an individual. Of course, this wasn’t inaccurate - it was the job of men like Kurzmann to see to the welfare of the troops - but sometimes it was the little things that added up, more than a few large gestures, that made all the difference.
“How was your walk today, SS-Sturmscharführer?” the young sentry asked, as Kurzmann came within a few paces.
“A beautiful day for a walk, Esser,” Kurzmann replied. “Summer feels closer than ever.”
Just in the nick of time, Kurzmann thought.
“You’re leaving us in a few days, yes?” Esser asked, his features livened with pride at the use of his name.
Kurzmann nodded. “Ja, three days. And yourself? How much longer are they going to let you rest on your arse? There are plenty of Popovs and Tommies left to kill before the war is over.”
Essen grinned at Kurzmann’s ribbing. “I have another two weeks here, and then an appointment with one of the medical officers. They must pronounce me fit for combat duty before I can return to my unit.”
Kurzmann gave the younger man a light slap on the shoulder. “Bring him a couple of bottles from here when you go, eh? A little bribery can go a long way. We are all thankful for your service here, but take it from me - there’s nothing better than serving with your comrades.”
“Do you miss the front, SS-Sturmscharführer?” Essen asked.
Kurzmann glanced towards the treeline, and his mind returned to the moment when he heard the cracking of the broken branch. If that’d happened while at the front, he’d have directed mortar rounds or a few belts of machine-gun ammunit
ion into the treeline. On his own though, with only a pistol, he felt far more vulnerable and insecure.
“I do miss it, yes,” Kurzmann replied. “It will be good to return.”
Essen looked around to ensure there wasn’t anyone else nearby, and leaned closer. “Will you partake in another one of your...hunting trips...before you leave?”
Kurzmann’s lips drew together in a thin line. “Such things are not talked about, understood?”
Essen swallowed hard and took a step back, raising his hand in a salute. “Jawohl, Herr SS-Sturmscharführer. Forget I said anything.”
“Already forgotten,” Kurzmann said, returning the salute. “Now, I must wash before dinner, and you must return to your post.”
Essen turned and adjusted the rifle sling on his shoulder, then walked away, glancing back at Kurzmann only once. The sentry’s comment about his “hunting trips” was a bit disconcerting, because although a few of the staff and the guards knew what took place, there was a unspoken rule that such things - not only the hunts, but the things that took place in the chateau’s basement at night - simply didn’t happen, and what did not happen, could not be discussed, ever. That one of the junior guards would have the temerity to bring it up in casual conversation was worrisome.
As Kurzmann stepped through the doorway of the chateau and made for the staircase, he wondered if he could find out the name of the medical officer in charge of approving Essen’s fitness for duty. It would be best if the young man found himself back on the front lines sooner, rather than later, and some place where he would be guaranteed to see action against the Soviets…
Chapter 7
Near The Chateau
March 27th, 2300 Hours
“I still say he’s a clumsy bugger, and he’s got no business being here with us in occupied bloody territory.”
Lynch waved his hand towards Nelson in a shushing motion. “Watch what you bloody well say, Harry. He’s a bleedin’ officer, so he is.”
Nelson looked around the small clearing, eyeing the other Commandos in the vicinity surreptitiously. “I don’t care if he’s the sodding Duke of Wellington reincarnated. None of us lads would have ever snapped that branch, and if we had, Sergeant McTeague would snap us in half over his knee like bleedin’ kindling.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Lynch replied. “But it doesn’t matter, does it now? You get heard saying such things, someone’s going to thump you on the pate good and proper.”
The two Commandos were performing a last check of their weapons and kit, each man reviewing the other’s equipment to make sure nothing was amiss or forgotten. Once that was accomplished, each man assisted the other in securing and taping down anything which might clink or make noise, and then they took turns helping apply camouflage blacking on the other’s face and hands, ensuring there was no patch of skin that might catch the attention of a German sentry.
It was an old routine to them by now, one they had performed dozens of times, both in practice and in the field. The process grounded and focused them, gave them something to think about other than the possibility of a violent death or permanent injury in the next few hours. A soldier’s life was never really in their own hands, or even in the hands of their commanding officers. Enemy action, a tragic accident, or a deadly twist of fate could snuff out their lives in the blink of an eye, and to distance the mind from this reality, veterans like Lynch and Nelson focused their energies on what they could control, with the knowledge that any little edge their preparedness gave them might be all the difference between life and death.
But their pre-battle preparations only kept Nelson quiet for so long. “He’s going to lead the bloody assault, and I don’t bloody well like it. He makes an arse of himself like that again tonight, and we’ve all had it!”
As much as he wished Nelson would just shut up, Lynch was in silent agreement with his Cockney squadmate. While reconnoitering near the target area earlier that afternoon, Stambridge - along with Lynch, McTeague, Nelson, and Bowen - had spied a lone German near the woodline they’d been hiding within. The five men had immediately moved into positions of concealment, but Stambridge had caught a branch with his sleeve. The branch had snapped with a clearly audible crack, and it was obvious by the way the German had frozen that he’d detected the noise. They’d waited for minutes, tense and ready to kill the German if he gave any indication that he was going to investigate, but instead the man had backed away slowly until out of sight.
Fearing the German might return with reinforcements, the Commandos had fallen back towards where the rest of the force had been laid up, every precaution taken to hide signs of their passage. None of them had mentioned Stambridge’s mistake, but the lieutenant’s face had turned a deep shade of red at the time, and whenever one of the others gave him a pointed look during the rest of the day, Stambridge flushed with embarrassment.
Now, Lynch and Nelson moved towards a gathering of the Troop’s command element, the squad leaders, and the other NCOs. As the men came together, each took a knee, while Stambridge and Captain Eldred used their Fairbairn-Sykes knives to draw a map of the chateau in the dirt. Once everyone had settled, Stambridge began to lead the briefing, talking the sergeants and corporals through the movements of their sections, identifying threats and strongpoints. Now and then, the lieutenant would gesture towards one of the men around him with the tip of his dagger, confirming a detail or questioning the man to ensure every nuance of the assault was understood.
Lynch had long ago committed every aspect of the mission to memory, after the weeks of planning and discussion, so while one part of his mind listened to Stambridge and the others, another focused on the man himself, observing his gestures, his expressions, the cadence of his voice. Stambridge certainly seemed to know what he was doing, Lynch thought. Having spent a couple of months carrying out operations in North Africa last year, Lynch had the utmost respect for the Long Range Desert Group, and if Stambridge had come recommended by their officers, he knew the man’s service record would be exemplary. Furthermore, Lynch knew that Lieutenant-Colonel George Durnford-Slater, the commanding officer of 3 Commando, would never have accepted an officer who was in any way a liability to a mission as dangerous as this one.
Still though, Lynch had his doubts. The LRDG was trained to gather information, to scout and observe, to find routes through the deep desert and take the measure of the Afrika Korps. And while those men were certainly capable of taking on the Germans in a fight if the need arose, they were not trained in the disciplines of shock warfare - silent killing, close-quarters assaults, hand-to-hand mortal combat, and many other skills Lynch had honed over the past two years in both training and battle. He doubted whether Stambridge had ever killed a man with a knife in the dark, or seen a comrade turned to shredded carrion by an exploding grenade. Indeed, no one actually knew whether or not Stambridge had ever even killed a man, and that was important. The previous year, when Lieutenant Price and the other eleven men in his squad - Lynch among them - had been selected for their first mission into France, a requirement for the assignment was men with proven combat experience, men who’d traded fire with the enemy. In short, men who had taken lives in the heat of combat, and were willing and able to do it again. Indeed, although Lynch knew the realities of their larger operational size over the past year meant that men without direct combat experience were recruited and assigned to Commando troops, the “Calais Men” of Price’s original squad felt superstitious about going into battle with men who had never shed blood before.
Stambridge finally stood up and sheathed his dagger, then gave all of them a nod. “Okay, lads, enough talk and bother. Lance-Sergeant Lynch and his squad will take point and advance us up to the target area, and then we’ll take up our support positions while they initiate the assault. Any last questions?”
Corporal Finch raised his hand. “Sir, what’s the limit on how much of Jerry’s wine cellar we can make off with? One bottle per man? Two, maybe?”
“Shut yer gob, Corporal,” McTeague grumbled, giving Finch a hard stare.
“Aye, Sergeant,” Finch replied with a grin.
Stambridge looked at Finch for a moment, then ran his gaze across all of the men around him. “Make no mistake here, gentlemen. This is not a time for levity. The Germans we will be encountering today, these are the pride of the SS, their chosen men. Most of these bastards will have won their crosses performing feats of bravery and skill. Any one of them may be more than a match for the best of you.”
Stambridge let that sink in for a moment.
“This is why we’re not going to give them the chance for a fair fight. We’re going to hit them hard, and fast, and we’re going to bloody well murder the lot of them, do you hear me? We’re going to throw grenades into their bedroom windows. We’re going to butcher them in their sleep. We’re going to kill the bastards while they’re sitting in the lav, enjoying a fag. It doesn’t matter where you find them, or what they try when you do, you’re going to slaughter these Hun bastards and bring me every Iron Cross you find. Now, is that understood?”
Lynch and the rest of the men gathered around Stambridge nodded and voiced their acknowledgement, although more than a couple gave each other sideways glances.
Stambridge nodded. “All right then, attend to your sections. We move out in five minutes.”
Chapter 8
Outside The Chateau
March 28th, 0100 Hours
Lynch crouched in the brush along the side of the narrow country lane, peering in the direction of the dark grey bulk that was the German Lustschloss. Next to him were Stambridge and Le Chasseur on his left, Nelson and Herring on his right. The rest of his squad was a few yards back behind him, the remainder of the troop a similar distance behind his squad. No one moved or made the slightest sound, and nothing was heard above the slight rustling of leaves in the wind.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 34
