Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  Looking across the lane, Lynch noted that there was no light coming from the chateau, the Germans demonstrating great proficiency in their adherence to blackout conditions. Lynch thought he caught the gleam of a lit cigarette now and then, giving away the position of one of the sentries as he walked the chateau’s grounds. Beyond that, however, there was no light at all, and the heavy blanket of clouds overhead prevented all but the faintest of moonlight from getting through, giving them only the barest hint of what lay in front of them.

  As far as Lynch was concerned, these were ideal conditions for the assault. He was completely at home in the dark, having trained for almost any kind of operation at night, in poorer weather than this, while marching and training in the Scottish moors. He wasn’t sure, however, what Stambridge thought of such dark conditions. The lieutenant said nothing as he crouched a few inches away, but Lynch knew the former LRDG officer was used to cloudless skies and starry nights, often illuminated by a gleaming silver moon. Lynch had fought in the deep desert at night, and knew that to Stambridge, the thick cloud cover above them must be more than a little bit oppressive.

  Finally there was a touch on Lynch’s forearm, the signal from Stambridge to withdraw back to the rest of the squad. Moving slowly and silently, the four men fell back until they were with the rest of Lynch’s men, well within the cover of the brush beyond the edge of the road. Stambridge leaned in, whispering directly into Lynch’s ear.

  “Are you confident you can make the assault without raising an alarm?” he asked Lynch.

  Lynch nodded, then realized Stambridge might not recognize the gesture in the dark. He turned and put his lips to the lieutenant’s ear.

  “I’ll take Herring, and we will eliminate the sentries. Three quick flashes of my torch with the red lens will mean we’ve cleared the assault path. Two sets of two flashes means hold.”

  “Right. Well then, good luck,” Stambridge replied, giving Lynch a momentary pat on the shoulder, an unusually familiar gesture which Lynch found rather awkward.

  Lynch turned to Nelson and leaned in close. “I’ll take Herring with me, you and the rest of the lads stay ready to cross the lane and give the Jerries a good flogging if we get into trouble.”

  He saw Nelson shake his head in the dark. “I still don’t like you and that little blighter going on your own, Tom. Bit thin, if you ask me.”

  Lynch grinned, although Nelson probably didn’t see it. “I’m not asking you, Harry old son. Now, be a good bloke and watch over the squad, now. And if we holler, come running, if you don’t mind?”

  Nelson gave him a friendly punch in the arm, the gesture far more welcome than Stambridge’s pat, and Lynch shrugged off his rucksack, sensing that Herring was doing the same thing a few feet away. Unburdened, He slung his Thompson across his back where it would be out of the way, and he unbuttoned the flap of the pistol holster at his side. Drawing the Browning, Lynch carefully worked the slide, chambering a round, before sliding the weapon back into the holster. He heard a similar sound from Herring’s direction as the trooper readied his .45 automatic. Without another word, the two men moved forward.

  At the edge of the lane, Lynch and Herring paused. There was no sound, and Lynch was unable to see the glow of a cigarette any more. Either the guard had finished his smoke and didn’t light another, or he’d moved to where the cigarette was no longer visible. Either way, they would have to get considerably closer before pinpointing the location of the sentries. Lynch reached out and tapped Herring on the forearm, and the two men moved at a crouch across the lane, making no sound.

  Once across, Lynch took point, moving towards the gap in the low stone wall where the chateau’s drive was located. The wall was only about a yard in height, but there was little need to try and climb over it, as the drive wasn’t gated, and easily wide enough for two vehicles to pass through side by side. Lynch had been somewhat apprehensive at the thought of the Germans employing guard dogs, but Le Chasseur had assured them he hadn’t seen any dogs when scouting the chateau in the daylight, and as they crouched just inside the drive, waiting to see if they’d been noticed, Lynch convinced himself they hadn’t been detected by man or beast.

  Herring tapped Lynch on the shoulder, then pointed towards the grounds along the left-hand side of the chateau. Lynch didn’t see anything at first, but he turned his head slightly and scanned the area using his peripheral vision, an unusual technique, but one he’d learned in training. The instructors had taught them that it had something to do with how the human eye was constructed, that it saw things in front of you in greater detail, but that specialization meant the center part of the eye wasn’t as good at other things, like seeing in the dark. Lynch had never asked a Medical Officer how this was possible - it was enough for him to know that the technique worked, and tonight, it allowed him to see the two tiny sparks of lit cigarettes as they bobbed along in the dark, dangling from the mouths of a pair of sentries.

  Moving slowly, Lynch and Herring shifted their position to the left, staying low to the ground. Soon, they were kneeling next to the low stone wall, watching in perfect stillness as the sentries walked by only a couple yards in front of them. At that distance, Lynch saw both men carried rifles, but the weapons were slung over their shoulders. One man had something in his hand, a small object Lynch took to be an electric torch. The Germans were silent as they passed by, save for the sound of their boots swishing through the short grass of the chateau grounds, and the faint rustle of their kit, the soft scrape of a wooden rifle stock against a metal buckle.

  Lynch waited until the sentries had passed, then applied gentle pressure to Herring’s elbow. The wiry Londoner needed no further urging. Lynch heard the whisper of steel on canvas as Herring drew his preferred edged weapon, the sword-bayonet of a Lee-Enfield No. 1 Mk III rifle, a weapon which Herring had carried until recently, when Stambridge had assigned Herring the German MP-38. The SMLE’s sword-bayonet had a seventeen-inch long blade, too awkward in Lynch’s mind for close-in work, but Herring was a shorter man who found the length of the blade to be very advantageous.

  As he rose to his feet, Lynch drew his own steel, a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife. Nicely balanced, with a double-edged blade seven inches long and tapering to a needle-sharp point, the “F-S knife” as the Commandos called it was their standard issue combat blade. Over the course of the last year, Lynch had killed several men with it, both in France and North Africa. Unlike Herring, who seemed to relish the chance to kill with cold steel, Lynch was ambivalent about it. Shooting a man, even at close range, still had a degree of impartiality. But stabbing or slicing into another person’s flesh, feeling the blade bite into muscle and organs, grate against bone, feel the other man’s body react violently to the killing blows, that was something Lynch knew he would never get used to, no matter how many times he had to do it.

  And now, he had to do it again. Lynch and Herring manoeuvred themselves behind the two sentries, and slowly increased their pace until they were only an arm’s length behind the two Germans. They kept that distance for a few paces until the two sentries slowed for a moment to shift direction, at which point the two Commandos struck. Lynch stepped up close, right behind the sentry, and grabbed the man under the chin, pulling up and back as hard as he could, using his shoulder as a fulcrum against the back of the German’s neck. The sentry tried to cry out, but Lynch’s hand prevented him from opening his mouth, and a split-second later, Lynch drove his knife into the side of the sentry’s neck, pushing it hard until the point of the blade broke through the other side. Then, with a vicious sawing motion, Lynch cut forward and out the front of the sentry’s throat, severing his windpipe as well as both carotid arteries. The German’s body spasmed and he let out a bubbling gurgle as air escaped through a fountain of blood, but in seconds, the man’s legs gave way and Lynch lowered him to the ground. Next to him, Herring was dragging the long blade of the sword-bayonet out of the other sentry’s kidney as the man lay shuddering on the ground. Herring then
plunged the bayonet into the side of the man’s throat, stabbing twice in quick succession. Herring’s victim twitched several times, then noisily loosened his bowels.

  Grimacing at the stink hitting his nostrils, Lynch took the rifle from the dead man at his feet. Working quietly, he cycled back the Mauser’s bolt and manipulated the bolt retaining catch, allowing him to slip the bolt free from the rifle’s receiver. He tossed the bolt aside, set the rifle down, and pulled a stick grenade from the dead man’s webbing, tucking it into his own belt. Herring did the same with his own victim, and they nodded to each other when they were ready to move on. Le Chasseur had told them that at night, the chateau was patrolled by two sets of two sentries, working on four-hour shifts. If the Frenchman’s observations were correct, the other two sentries were right now on the other side of the estate grounds, heading in their direction. Lynch and Herring grabbed their dead sentries by their shoulder straps, and careful to make as little noise as possible, dragged the men away from the most likely path the other sentries might take.

  That task completed, they settled in to wait, and ten minutes later, another pair of bodies lay at their feet, dispatched as easily as the first two. Lynch couldn’t help but feel a momentary pang of guilt at how easily the Germans had been killed, despite the fact they had been on patrol duty, supposedly alert and looking for any sign of an intruder. He knew that his and Herring’s skills at moving and stalking in the dark were finely honed, but during both killings, it had been clear the Germans were not expecting any kind of trouble. And why would they? The chateau was a military target only in the loosest sense of the term. It was not a coastal defence bunker, an ammunition depot, or an airfield. Except for the fact that there were several dozen highly-decorated German soldiers quartered at the chateau, the grounds had no value as a target whatsoever. The soldiers stationed at the chateau as security probably considered it a plum assignment, a world away from the horrors of the Eastern Front, or the heat and sand of North Africa. Lynch was sure they’d never dreamed of being attacked by a raiding party in the middle of the night.

  With the sentries eliminated, Lynch unclipped a red-lensed torch from his webbing and pointed it across the road, in the direction of the rest of the Commando troop. In a matter of seconds, he’d flashed the all-clear signal.

  Chapter 9

  The Chateau

  0120 Hours

  They crossed the road in half-squads, six men at a time. While the Commandos moved quietly, it was the quiet of men trained to minimize noise while moving in the dark, and it was clear speed was not being sacrificed for silence. It was only a matter of time before those still awake in the chateau - whether they were other guards and support staff, or guests who hadn’t gone to bed yet - noticed something was wrong. The Commandos needed to be in position and ready before that time came to pass.

  Lynch moved back towards the opening in the low stone wall, flashing his torch once to get the attention of the command section. Eldred, Stambridge, McTeague, Le Chasseur, and the other squad leaders converged on his position, skirting the gravel of the drive and padding silently across the grass. Up close, they all knelt and leaned in to each other so no one had to raise their voices above a whisper.

  “Both sentry details are eliminated, so they are,” Lynch informed them.

  “Any other signs of Jerry awake and alert?” Eldred asked.

  “No sir,” Lynch replied. “At this hour, I doubt there are many still awake, and if they are, they’re either bored or pissed on French wine.”

  “It’s settled then,” Eldred stated. “Lynch, assemble your squad and prepare to take the ground floor of the chateau. Once you’ve secured that, Sergeant King will take second squad in and assault the staircase, clearing the first floor. Sergeant Howe will follow and take the second floor, while you secure the cellar and provide additional support where there’s heavy resistance. Sergeant Peabody’s weapons squad will maintain security along the perimeter, while the command section serves as a floating reserve and maintains communication between those inside and out. Understood?”

  Everyone spoke up in agreement, and the meeting dissolved, the sergeants going their separate ways to gather their squads and move to their assigned locations. Lynch saw a group of men moving towards him, led by a bulky figure he instantly recognized as Nelson. Without speaking, the ten men making up the remainder of his squad followed Lynch and Herring as they moved at a careful, measured pace towards the stone steps leading up to the large double doors at the front of the chateau. The squad slowed as they reached the steps, and Lynch turned, seeking out the two men carrying the squad’s two Bren light machine guns. He pointed to each machine-gunner and gave them a gesture with the open flat of his palm, indicating that they, and their attending loaders, should stay behind and not make entry into the chateau. It was a significant reduction in his squad’s firepower, but the Bren guns were big, bulky weapons that needed space to be used effectively, a poor choice in the room to room fighting they were about to undertake. Even without the Brens, Lynch wasn’t concerned with the lack of firepower, since between them, the eight men had four submachine guns and four rifles, plus grenades and sidearms. Unless there was an entire German infantry platoon waiting in ambush on the other side of the double doors, the Commandos would have an overwhelming advantage in firepower.

  Treading carefully, Lynch advanced up the stairs, followed closely by Nelson. Each man had three other Commandos behind him, and they formed two files along the sides of the chateau doors. In position, Lynch tucked the stock of his Thompson submachine gun into his shoulder, confirming with the familiar touch of his hand that the weapon’s twenty-round magazine was firmly seated in place, the bolt locked back and ready to fire. He looked to Nelson, the big Cockney hunched over his own weapon, one hand on the door’s latch, and he saw the faint glint of Nelson’s teeth, revealed in a broad grin. Lynch held up his hand and gave three fingers, then two, and finally one, then gripped the latch to his door, thumbed the release, and pulled it open.

  The heavy oak door, black with age and strapped with wrought iron, must have weighed as much as three men, but it opened almost silently on well-oiled hinges. Inside, a large foyer revealed a broad staircase which turned right at the floor above. Wide hallways extended away from the foyer on either side, and the space was lit by a pair of electric lights designed to look like candles in sconces on either side of the double doors. Immediately in front of Lynch there was a ornately-carved wooden bench, upon which a German soldier sprawled, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, a book in his hand. An MP-40 machine pistol hung from the corner of the bench’s back near the man’s booted feet.

  The German didn’t even look up from the book in his hand until Lynch had stepped through the doorway, followed by Nelson and several of the other Commandos. When he did, the cigarette dropped from his open mouth, his eyes growing wide in alarm. For a second, Lynch contemplated the notion of taking the man alive, but the German made the choice for him, awkwardly lurching forward as if trying to touch his toes, reaching for the machine pistol dangling just out of reach. The German realized he would never be able to get to his weapon in time, and threw his body sideways, attempting to roll out of the bench and away from the muzzle of Lynch’s weapon.

  The German hadn’t even hit the floor before a weapon roared, shockingly loud in the confined space of the foyer. A burst of heavy .45 calibre slugs from Nelson’s Thompson chopped into the German, turning his roll into a shuddering flop as the man sprawled, lifeless, onto the stone floor. As the sound of the gunfire echoed off the stonework, there were shouts in both German and French from both of the hallways, as well as from the upper levels of the chateau. The reactions were far too swift to have come from men who’d been awakened by the shooting, so it was clear there were still a number of men still awake even at this late hour.

  Lynch looked to Nelson and chopped his hand through the air in a signal to the corporal to take his men down the right-hand corridor. Then, Lynch took a sma
ll tin whistle from his battledress pocket and blew three times, the sharp notes cutting through the growing sounds of shouting and the distant running of feet. Immediately, Archie King led his squad through the front doors, the affable sergeant giving Lynch a jaunty salute while his men readied themselves in preparation for the assault up the staircase. Lynch raised his weapon and the three men of his section fell in around him, Herring moving up to his side, MP-38 at the ready.

  They pushed into the hallway, which was perhaps twenty yards long. A door to their left slammed open, and four Germans stumbled out, their uniforms half-fastened, helmets sitting askew on their heads. Three of them carried rifles, while the fourth was dragging back the bolt on a machine pistol. They spotted Lynch and his men, and one of the riflemen snapped off a hasty shot which tunneled the air between Lynch and Herring. Before the other Germans brought their weapons to bear, the two foremost Commandos raised their weapons and raked the four enemy soldiers with economical bursts of automatic fire, each man taking several bullets to the center mass. Within seconds, the Germans formed a blockade of bodies in the doorway of the room they’d emerged from, a room which appeared to Lynch to be the ready room for the sentries who had night duty. Firing a single shot into the head of a man still struggling to rise, Herring stepped over the bodies and into the room, sweeping it with the muzzle of his weapon for a moment before backing out again.

  “All clear,” he said to Lynch.

  They advanced down the hall, and Lynch kicked in another door to the right, revealing a small sitting room. Cowering in the corner were two middle-aged Frenchmen in servant’s uniforms, hands over their heads, weeping freely and no doubt expecting to die. Lynch took a few seconds to ensure there were no Germans skulking in a corner or behind a piece of furniture, then he gave one of the men a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he left, a gesture that nearly caused the man to faint in mortal terror. Lynch closed the door as he exited the room, and the four men formed up to face the large set of interior double doors at the end of the hall.