Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “It’s...this is a…” Lynch couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  Eldred stood up from giving a piece of bread to a crying girl no more than sixteen years old. He turned and looked at Lynch, then nodded, his face set in a stoic mask.

  “Yes, it’s precisely what you think it is,” Eldred said. “Apparently the SS high command wanted to ensure their heroes were able to indulge in whatever pleasures they wished while staying here, no matter how...diabolical.”

  The older male prisoner slowly, painfully, got to his feet, aided by one of the other Commandos. Lynch saw the man was badly malnourished, and showed signs of repeated beatings. The man took a tentative step forward, then cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Englishmen,” the man spoke, his voice cracking with the effort. “You invade France now? So soon?”

  Eldred turned to the man. “You speak English?”

  The man nodded. “Da, and German. I study at university, before the war. This is why, the Germans, they keep me here. Months, I have been here. So many, so many of the young. They all are killed, but not me. I speak German, so I live.”

  “What is your name?” Eldred asked.

  “My name is Anatoly Lubanov. I lived in Leningrad, was given rifle to fight the Germans, but I was wounded,” Lubanov touched a thick rope of scar tissue along the side of his head. “Germans put me on a train, send me here with the others. They would shoot me, but when they hear I speak both languages, I am kept alive.”

  “How do you speak both German and English?” Lynch asked. “What did you study?”

  Lubanov gave Lynch a small smile. “I study to become professor. I want to teach history. As a young man, I visit London, visit Germany.”

  “Why would the Germans send a man here who speaks two other languages? Languages of their enemies? Seems like a bit of a waste to me, so it does,” Lynch said, a tone of suspicion in his voice.

  “Yes,” Eldred murmured, “Why were you not sent elsewhere, to support the war effort? They could have you translating documents, listening to radio transmissions.”

  Lubanov shook his head, then sagged, his body seeming to collapse in on itself. He sobbed, then fell to his knees. The Commandos around him watched, confused. Finally, after a long moment, Lubanov dragged a dirty, ragged shirt sleeve across his face. and sucked in a lungful of air.

  “They use me, to lie to those who come here, the other Soviets,” he told the Commandos. “If I lie to them, I live. That is my purpose here.”

  “What do you lie about, then?” Lynch asked.

  “I lie to them,” Lubanov said, blinking back tears, “and I tell them they will leave here alive.”

  Chapter 12

  The Chateau

  0230 Hours

  Kurzmann crouched in the candlelit gloom with Brune and Stahl at his side. Above them, they heard the muffled tramp of booted feet. The three Germans made no sound, they simply crouched in the small confines of the secret room underneath the stables, blinking away the dirt that filtered down through the cracks in the heavy timbers overhead. To Kurzmann’s left, a ladder of thick wooden beams offered escape, but it was narrow, only able to fit one man at a time, and if there was an enemy above when one of them emerged, discovery would mean certain death for all of them.

  So, they sat and waited, the flickering of the single candle on the ground between them the only movement in the room. Kurzmann glanced again at the luminous dial of his watch and saw they’d been under the stables for half an hour, although it felt much, much longer. He did not like the claustrophobic nature of the secret chamber, the timbers so low over their heads that Kurzmann and Brune had to bend nearly double to move without crawling on hands and knees. Further, the room was small enough that a single step in any direction, and you could reach out and touch one of the chamber’s four walls. While Stahl seemed to be at peace, sitting in a corner, chin resting on his drawn-up knees, Brune was not handling the situation well at all. The big man sat with his machine pistol clenched in his hands, knuckles white, sweat glistening on his head, lips drawn tight and eyes wide with barely-controlled panic. Twice already, Kurzmann had to reach out and clamp his hand around Brune’s forearm, as he saw the big man begin to sit up and move towards the ladder, a muttered curse on his lips. As much as such a confined, subterranean space was against the instincts of a sniper, one who needs long, open sight lines and concealed routes of ingress and egress, Kurzmann was able to manage his discomfort. Brune, however, was on the verge of suffering a panic attack that might draw lethal attention to them.

  Not for the first time in the last half hour, Kurzmann contemplated whether or not he needed to kill Brune in order to ensure his own survival. Even if they escaped from the underground chamber without being detected, he feared Brune would throw their lives away on a futile charge towards the Tommies, guns blazing. Kurzmann knew the only way they would exact any kind of revenge for the assault was if they escaped and brought word of the raid to the closest garrison. There were only two vehicles currently on the estate’s grounds, and together they’d be able to transport less than half of the enemies’ estimated number. That meant a retreat on foot to the coast, and if that was the case, Kurzmann would see to it that they were run down and butchered in the lanes and hedgerows between here and the ocean.

  But none of that would come to pass if Brune ruined it all by emptying the magazine of his machine pistol at the first group of Tommies they saw once they reached the surface. Keeping the big soldier alive was dangerous, that was for certain, but Kurzmann was more concerned with how he could possibly kill the man quickly and quietly, and not be killed in the process. A gunshot, even if Kurzmann muffled the report of his P-38 by pushing the muzzle of the weapon into Brune’s body, still might be heard by keen ears near the stables. He would have to kill Brune silently, either with a blade or some other hand-held instrument, and Kurzmann knew that in such a contest, he was sorely disadvantaged. Even if he could drive home a fatal blow, the odds of Brune killing or badly wounding him in retaliation were higher than he was willing to gamble against.

  Kurzmann’s gaze shifted towards Stahl. The little man would, he knew, be able to kill Brune and get away unscathed, but Kurzmann was unsure of Stahl’s loyalties in their three-way dynamic. Kurzmann had re-played the incident in the parlour in his mind many times since that night, and he still wasn’t able to discern if Stahl would have moved in support of him or against him. The Sturmmann was, however, a coldly calculating thinker, and if Kurzmann made the situation obvious, he felt fairly sure that Stahl would take action to make sure Brune did not throw their lives away with his. However, with the three of them in a room little bigger than the troop compartment of a half-track, there was no way for Kurzmann to confide in the other man and gauge his opinion on the matter. He would have to wait, and hope they would be able to control Brune’s urges until the odds of revenge were more in their favor.

  There was a shout in the stable above them, the angry tone of a voice that carried the weight of command with it, either an officer or a sergeant. Kurzmann heard other voices, their tone much more subdued, immediately followed by the sound of feet scuffing through the packed earth above them, and the thump of a heavy wooden door closing. Most likely, the men in the room above had been shirkers, hiding from their duties while smoking cigarettes or drinking looted liquor, and they’d finally been caught and chastised by one of their superiors. Kurzmann and the others waited, eyes looking up into the darkness over their heads, heads cocked slightly to the side, straining for any sound that might give away an Englishman in the room above.

  Five minutes passed, and there was no noise from overhead. Finally, Stahl looked at Kurzmann and pointed towards the ladder, his eyebrows raised in query. Kurzmann nodded, then slid his pistol from its holster, handing it to Stahl butt-first. The wiry man checked to make sure the P-38’s chamber was loaded, then moved to the ladder, tucking the pistol in his belt. With extreme caution, the smaller man ascended the wooden rungs of the ladder
, and there was a faint creak of old wood as the trap-door was raised. Kurzmann held his breath, hands firmly gripping his rifle, but after a few seconds, Stahl ducked back down and signalled that all was well.

  Moments later, the three men were standing in a tack-room, surrounded by the smell of oiled leather and the more unpleasant odor of fresh cigarette smoke lingering in the air. Kurzmann could not help but smile to himself, for it appeared that even the vaunted “Commandos” of the English had laggards and layabouts among their ranks. It helped calm his nerves a little to remember that, despite the overwhelming defeat they’d just suffered at the hands of the Tommies, the enemy was still human, with human weaknesses that a good soldier - a careful soldier - might be able to exploit.

  Stahl moved to the room’s only door and carefully cracked it open. After looking out for a few seconds, he glanced back at the other two men. “We are in the clear, there isn’t anyone in the stable.”

  “So what do we do?” whispered Brune.

  Kurzmann stepped over to the one window in the room and peered outside. The window faced to the south, away from the main building, and so he was unable to spot any of the enemy. However, he did see that the nearest hedge was only about thirty metres away. Running his hands along the window frame, he found a latch and hinges - the window could be opened.

  “We climb out this window,” Kurzmann told the others, “and we make for the hedge. If we stay low, and we keep the stable between us and the chateau, we stand a good chance of escaping unseen.”

  “And if we are seen?” asked Brune. “Then what?”

  Kurzmann gave him a stern look. “Then you lay down covering fire while Stahl and I make for the hedge. Once we’re there, we’ll cover you until you join us, and then together, we run like madmen.”

  “Where do we go?” asked Stahl.

  Kurzmann looked at his watch. “We’ll figure that out when we’re beyond the hedge. Come, we are wasting time, and every second we stand around, we risk discovery.”

  Despite his worries over the time, Kurzmann opened the window slowly and carefully, breathing a sigh of relief when the hinges made no sound. One by one they clambered out of the window, Brune grunting in pain as he forced his bulk through the opening. Once outside, the three men dropped to a low crouch, and keeping the barn between them and any potential enemies, they made their way to the hedges. It was the furthest thirty metres Kurzmann felt he’d ever covered, but they slipped through the branches without incident, emerging on the other side of the hedge and into the edge of a clearing.

  “Well, we made it this far,” Stahl whispered. “Where do we go from here?”

  Kurzmann thought for a moment. “We go north, try for the village of Crossac. There’s no garrison there, but there could be a patrol bivouacked for the night, and we can find a telephone and contact someone in Sainte-Reine. I heard they keep a small garrison there. We can then -.”

  The sound of approaching vehicle engines caught their attention.

  Chapter 13

  The Chateau

  0245 Hours

  Lynch’s head snapped around at the sound of lorry engines to the north.

  “Vehicles approaching!” he called out. “Look alive now!”

  All around him, men were taking their weapons in hand, looking for their squadmates and the nearest bit of cover. Lynch brought around his own Thompson, then looked for members of his squad. He didn’t immediately see anyone, so he moved towards the road, where he encountered Higgins, who was holding his Bren gun steady while his loader unfolded the weapon’s bipod legs. Near the edge of the gate, where the lane turned onto the chateau grounds, the two men of the Boys anti-tank rifle team readied the enormous weapon. Lynch realized the engines might not mean lorries, but armoured cars. His mind flashed from their first adventures around Merlimont, to the deserts of North Africa. They’d faced off against such odds in the past, but even with the Boys rifle, the chances of friendly casualties were high.

  “Get into cover and don’t fire until ordered,” Eldred’s voice carried across the chateau’s lawn. “And aim for the drivers if you have to fire, but try to keep the vehicles serviceable. They might be our means of escape.”

  After a few seconds of milling about, the Commandos vanished into every shadow or nook they could find, at least half of them disappearing into the chateau. Lynch began to move back towards the building as well, but Eldred called out to him.

  “Lance-Sergeant, you’re with me,” Eldred commanded.

  Lynch approached his captain, joined by McTeague, who stepped out of the shadows, Thompson at the ready. Lynch looked around but didn’t immediately see Stambridge.

  “Where’s the lieutenant?” he asked McTeague.

  “Inside. Never mind that, now. Here comes Jerry,” McTeague growled.

  The three men crouched behind a clump of bushes near the side of the chateau. From their vantage point, Lynch saw a trio of open-topped cargo lorries approaching down the narrow lane leading to the turnoff onto the chateau grounds. Each vehicle shone light from slits in the blackout covers fitted to their headlamps, the illumination just enough to drive along the dark road without running off into a ditch or smashing into the tailgate of the vehicle in front. As far as Lynch was able to discern, there weren’t any troops in the back of the lorries - their cargo beds were empty.

  “Just the drivers?” he wondered aloud.

  The others didn’t have time to reply before the lorries turned off from the lane and began to stop in front of the chateau. Just as the drivers cut the engines, Lynch tensed, guessing now was the time to act, when the front door of the chateau opened, and a figure wearing an SS uniform stepped out and threw the drivers a hasty salute. The closest driver shouted something with a sense of urgency, and the man in the uniform - it took Lynch a moment to realize it was Stambridge - gave a tired-sounding reply. The lieutenant was wearing a German uniform jacket and helmet, and he’d thrown on webbing fitted with magazine pouches for the MP-40 cradled leisurely in his hands.

  “Bloody hell,” McTeague whispered to no one in particular.

  By now the drivers had disembarked, one for each vehicle, and a fourth man with the uniform insignia of a Gefreiter stepped down from the passenger side of the lead lorry. The Gefreiter began urgently speaking to Stambridge, who nodded while knuckling his eyes in an imitation of one who hadn’t had a lot of sleep. The Gefreiter stopped talking and looked at Stambridge with exasperation, gesturing towards the chateau's entrance.

  With a nod, Stambridge half-turned, then swung back around, his MP-40 rising up, the muzzle spitting flame. One long raking burst took down the Gefreiter and his driver, while the other two Germans each took a short burst of slugs, the last man stitched across his back as he turned to flee. The four Germans were dead in as many seconds.

  A long moment passed in silence, then Eldred stepped out from behind cover and cleared his throat dramatically. “Good show, lieutenant. Smart bit of theatre, that was.”

  Stambridge nodded without turning to look at Eldred, the muzzle of the MP-40 still covering the Germans. “Thank you, sir.”

  “What did these chaps want?” Eldred asked. “I’m going to guess they had word of the operation to the south. Bit of a late hour to come calling otherwise.”

  “Just so, sir,” Stambridge replied. “They were coming to collect the security detail, as well as any of the guests who were willing to volunteer. Then they were headed straight for St. Nazaire.”

  Lynch had emerged from cover along with Eldred and McTeague, and he gave the two officers a perplexed look. “Pardon, sirs, but what’s going on in St. Nazaire? Is that the location of the raid taking place at the same time as ours?”

  Stambridge frowned and looked to Eldred, who hesitated before replying. “The details are on a need-to-know basis, Lance-Sergeant, but suffice to say, there is, indeed, an operation taking place right now in the port of St. Nazaire, one that it is significant enough to draw much of the German strength to the south of us, gi
ving us a clearer route back to the coast once we are done here.”

  Lynch nodded, not pushing by asking any further questions. Although there was always a balance to be struck between the need for secrecy and the need to provide helpful information to those who can best use it, the rule was you were only told what you needed to be told, lest your capture and interrogation lead to compromised information. He remembered that the window of time in which their raid here took place had to be very specific, but nothing else was discussed. The raid to the south, in one of the larger ports of this region of France, was no doubt what had determined when they could carry out this attack.

  “Alright, you gaggle of layabouts!” McTeague snarled at the Commandos standing around the dead Germans. “Drag these poor bastards out of the way, and let’s put these lorries to use.”

  At a gesture from the sergeant, men stepped forward and tended to the bodies of the four Germans, stripping them of grenades, ammunition, and any other valuables in a matter of moments. Once the looting was complete, the Commandos dragged away the bodies by their heels, leaving the corpses where they wouldn’t interfere with those moving in and out of the chateau.

  Lynch found himself at something of a loss, not having anything to do for a moment. He approached the nearest lorry and peered inside the cab. The vehicle was a civilian model, a Renault confiscated and pressed into service by the Germans, painted in military colors but otherwise unchanged from when it carried barrels of wine or sacks of turnips. Although at least a decade old, the lorry looked to be in good repair, although Lynch imagined that one of the men with more automotive experience might want to look over the engine before they departed.

  A glint of glass under the driver’s seat caught Lynch’s eye before he extinguished his torch, and he reached under the seat to feel the smooth glass of a brandy bottle. A swift turn of the wrist while holding the bottle by the neck proved it was mostly full, and he idly wondered if it was any good. Before he was tempted to pull the cork from the mouth of the bottle, though, he sensed someone next to him, and he turned to find Stambridge at his side.