Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “A bit of contraband, Lance-Sergeant?” Stambridge asked him.

  Lynch hesitated for a moment before offering the bottle to the lieutenant. “Sorry, sir. Found it underneath the seat. Wasn’t looking for a tightener while on the job, sir.”

  Stambridge gave Lynch a smirk, then took the bottle and held it up to his eyes to read the label. “Hmmm...Sempé Armagnac...some variety of frog brandy, I presume.”

  And with that, Stambridge pulled the cork free and took a long slug from the bottle, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, his eyes closed. Stambridge smiled and gave a small nod to Lynch,

  “They might not have known how to fight the Germans on the modern battlefield, but the bloody frogs know how to make something worth drinking.” Stambridge offered Lynch the bottle. “Go on, Lance-Sergeant. I trust your Gaelic constitution will stand up to one tot of good French brandy.”

  Lynch took a curious sniff at the mouth of the bottle, noting the strong, sweet odor of brandy, different from the lighter scent of Irish whisky. With a final look to Stambridge, who did nothing but raise an eyebrow, a gesture Lynch took to be a challenge of sorts. Lynch tipped the bottle back and took a generous mouthful of brandy, the warm liquid burning as it went down his throat, settling into a fiery glow in his belly.

  “Ohhhh, but that’s smooth, to be sure,” he said softly, handing the bottle back to Stambridge, who put the cork back in place, then tucked it into the thigh pocket of his battledress trousers.

  Stambridge gestured to the other two lorries. “Give them a look and see if there’s anything else we can scavenge, and make sure they’ve got full tanks of petrol. We’ll need every square foot of space in the back of these, and we’ll strain their springs to the breaking point.”

  Lynch nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “Captain Eldred and I have discussed the complications presented with the Russian prisoners,” Stambridge said, with a small nod back towards the chateau.

  Lynch saw several of the Russians emerging from the building, each wrapped with a blanket around their shoulders. “Can’t very well leave them for Jerry, can we, sir? Poor blighters will be shot the moment the first Germans show up and find this mess.”

  “Yes, quite,” Stambridge agreed. “So we’re going to take them with us. It’ll be difficult, but we figure with these transports and the two other vehicles on the grounds, we can accommodate everyone, although we might all find ourselves a little more familiar with each other after this is all over.”

  Lynch thought for a moment. “Some of the lads will grumble about this, so they will. Civilians will slow us down, panic and make noise when we’ve got to move quiet, get in the way when there’s fighting to be done. Men might die because we bring them along with us.”

  “Anyone who signed up for a Commando unit and worries overmuch about being killed in combat lacks more than a little sound judgement,” Stambridge replied.

  “Being killed by some clever Jerry bugger’s one thing, but being killed because some daft Russian knocks you into a bullet while in a panic, that’s just bollocks, so it is, sir,” Lynch told him.

  Stambridge barked a short laugh and shook his head in amusement, before his face took on a more serious cast. He patted the bottle in his trouser pocket. “Thank you, Lance-Sergeant, for joining me in toasting my first dead Germans.”

  “Aye, sir. You’re welcome, sir,” Lynch replied. “And to many more in the future.”

  Stambridge nodded and turned to walk away.

  “They’re good lads, sir. All of them,” Lynch said. “They might grumble about the Russians, but I’ve seen how the lads look at ‘em. This business, it’s bloody awful, so it is. Puts a fire in the lads. I bloody well pity any bastard Jerries we find, so I do. The lads will massacre them.”

  Stambridge looked at him for a moment, then simply nodded and walked away. Lynch watched the lieutenant depart for a moment, then turned towards the next lorry.

  Chapter 14

  North Of The Chateau

  0300 Hours

  “Those bastards,” Brune snarled. “Those stinking bastards.”

  “What’s done is done,” Kurzmann snapped at the bigger man as they pushed on, making their way through the underbrush of the French bocage as silently as they were able.

  “We just walked away from it,” Brune continued, each word laden with his rage. “We ran like dogs.”

  “And if we had stayed and tried to save them?” Stahl interjected. “What then? The Tommies would be throwing us on the same pile of bodies. Maybe there would be fewer Englishmen in the world, a handful fewer, but then we’d be dead.”

  “I don’t see the problem with that!” Brune rounded on his much smaller comrade, teeth bared and visible in the moonlight. “I know a lot of dead men, and they’d be better company than you!”

  “Well I’d rather keep breathing!” Stahl shot back. “I like being alive! I like good beer and cheese and Swiss chocolate and women who take their clothes off for money. I’ve also got plenty of friends who are dead, but I don’t want to join them any time soon!”

  “We’ll be joining all our dead friends sooner than you think,” Kurzmann growled, “if the two of you don’t shut the hell up!”

  Stahl and Brune glared at each other, but the two men became quiet, and the trio continued on in silence for several minutes. Kurzmann knew that none of them were happy with running away from the Englishmen, but there was simply no other option that didn’t involve doing something suicidal, and - despite Brune’s protests to the contrary - there was nothing brave or noble about getting killed for nothing but the satisfaction of snuffing out a few Tommies.

  After about half a kilometre, Kurzmann called for a halt. Thankfully, the three men were in excellent shape, and their kits were little more than their clothing and personal weapons, so none of them were so much as breathing hard, although the wound in Kurzmann’s side was protesting a little. As they stood in the complete shadow of a large tree, Brune and Stahl looked at him expectantly.

  “I say we stick with my earlier plan,” Kurzmann told them. “The village of Crossac is perhaps another kilometre, a kilometre and a half north of here. We go there, we rouse any Germans we find - even if it is only a squad of Heer troops - and we use whatever communications they have in the village to alert someone higher up the chain of command as to what happened. Then, once we’ve made them aware of the attack, we take whatever manpower is available to us, and we return to the chateau.”

  Stahl looked unconvinced. “Those Tommies...they were Kommandos. A squad of Heer riflemen won’t be nearly enough.”

  Kurzmann nodded. “You are correct. We won’t attack, we will just maintain contact. As long as we know where they are, or where they are going, we can always send runners and bring reinforcements. The Tommies will be making for the coastline, as fast as they can. Once we know where they will rendezvous with their transportation, we surround them and butcher them on the beach.”

  This idea seemed to have merit to Stahl and Brune, who nodded in agreement. With the renewed energy of purpose behind them, the three made good time, deciding to use the road to Crossac, despite the remote possibility that the Tommies would travel this way using their captured lorries, and catch them unawares on the road.

  It took them about half an hour to reach the outskirts of Crossac, a small village of no concern to the German war machine other than the fact that its inhabitants were largely responsible for providing food, liquor, and other sundries for the Germans at the Chateau. Kurzmann had never been in the village, as he’d arrived from St. Nazaire, to the south. From all accounts, there was nothing in Crossac worth guarding with a garrison, but Kurzmann was sure there’d at least be a squad of second-line Heer soldiers, likely those who were recovering from injuries and assigned to light duty in occupied territory. Most of these men belonged to units that were chopped up into tiny fragments and scattered throughout occupied territory, ensuring the locals were kept in line with the sight of the Sw
astika and the armed men bearing that symbol.

  Kurzmann was surprised, however, to find there was, in fact, activity in the town at this late hour. Blackout curtains were still in place across windows, but here and there he saw slivers of light escaping from where a curtain had been pulled aside and not put back with proper care. Glancing at his wristwatch, Kurzmann saw it was 0330 hours, too early even for the local farmers to be up and about.

  “Something’s afoot,” he whispered to Stahl and Brune. “Keep your eyes up and your weapons ready. The Tommies might have carried out other attacks in the area.”

  The other two men nodded, shifting weapons in their hands. The three moved out of the middle of the road and closer to the nearest buildings, not wanting to be spotted in the open and mistaken for enemy soldiers by a wary sentry. They passed a church, the structure so much larger and ridiculously more ornate than any of the other meagre structures in the village that it made Kurzmann chuckle to himself. While Germany was certainly not without its churches in every town and village, he was always astounded by the fervency of the faithful among the French. No matter how loathsome and pitiful the village, there was bound to be a church there, towering over everything else, doubtless worth more than half the village’s assets combined. God did little to keep us out of your country, Kurzmann thought to himself, no matter how devout your prayers, or how tall your church steeples.

  Shortly after passing the church, they approached a small bakery, and the smell of warm bread reached them. Kurzmann’s stomach growled, and he realized he was ravenously hungry. Stepping up to the bakery door, he drew his P-38 and thumped the butt of the pistol against the door several times. He heard floorboards creak inside, and after a moment, the door’s latch rattled and the door swung open a few centimetres. A portly, older man in a flour-dusted apron peered outside, his body mostly blocking the light spilling outside from within.

  “Oui?” the Frenchman asked.

  Kurzmann realized he didn’t have anything to pay the Frenchman with, not that such was much of a concern. Deciding that he didn’t care at the moment, Kurzmann simply leveled the muzzle of his P-38 at the Frenchman’s face.

  “Pain, maintenant s'il vous plaît,” Kurzmann demanded in rough French. The baker swallowed hard and backed up a couple of steps, his hands raised past his shoulders. He motioned with a trembling hand that Kurzmann and his men should come inside.

  Shutting the door behind them, the smell of baking bread was almost overpowering. The front of the bakery was taken up by a couple of small round tables, each with two chairs. There was a counter, and a display area, both of which were empty. The baker made his way around the counter and into the back of the bakery, where he busied himself with plucking three small baguettes from a cooling rack and putting them in a paper bag, while repeatedly looking over his shoulder in fear of being shot by Kurzmann. Emerging from the back of the bakery, he paused and took three small glass pots of fruit preserves and dropped them in the bag as well. With a still-trembling hand, he held the sack out to Kurzmann, who took it with a nod.

  “Merci,” Kurzmann said, holstering his pistol. He turned to the others.

  “Do either of you have any money?” he asked.

  Brune let out a dismissive snort. “You must be joking.”

  Stahl made a face, then reached into the breast pocket of his tunic. He pulled out several bills and thumbed through them, handing three to Kurzmann, who passed them to the baker. The Frenchman was too shocked to even take the money, until Kurzmann gave him an exasperated look and shook the bills in the baker’s face. The man took the money and gave a nod that nearly turned into a bow.

  “I’m going to vomit,” Brune grumbled. “Let us go, before I kill this man.”

  “You idiot,” Stahl replied. “If you kill him, where will we get bread for breakfast? He probably bakes the bread and pastries we have every day.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kurzmann snapped, and the three men turned to leave the bakery, when Kurzmann had a thought. He turned back to the baker.

  “Où est la garnison?” he asked.

  The baker looked confused for a moment, likely wondering why this German was asking where his own garrison was located. But then he seemed to notice their disheveled look, and pointed down the street, in the direction they’d been proceeding.

  “Deux cents mètres?” he said with a shrug, unsure as to why Kurzmann was asking.

  Kurzman nodded, and the three men departed. Kurzmann handed the others each a baguette and one of the pots of preserves, and they took a moment, standing outside in the darkness, to tear into the bread and dip it into the preserves, the baguettes still hot and steaming when ripped into pieces, fresh from the oven.

  “They might not fight worth a damn,” Stahl mumbled around a large mouthful of half-chewed bread. “but they certainly know how to bake.”

  Kurzmann gestured further along the road, in the direction the baker had pointed. “Let’s go, eat while you’re moving.”

  They walked and ate for several minutes, and as they approached a large wooden townhouse, Kurzmann noticed a Kübelwagen and a couple of French trucks parked out front. A limp swastika hung from a short flagpole in the dark shadow next to the building, From within, they heard the muted crackle of a wireless radio set, and the urgent bark of the voice coming through the receiver. Inside, someone answered the radio transmission, their tone agitated and confused.

  “Something’s wrong,” Kurzmann said, turning to look at the others. “There must have been another attack.”

  The building’s front door banged open, light slashing across the street, and two armed figures strode outside.

  Chapter 15

  The Village Of Crossac

  0345 Hours

  “Who the hell are you?” the first man out of the doorway demanded.

  There was enough light coming from inside the building for Kurzmann to see the insignia of a Leutnant on the man’s uniform, so he came to attention and snapped out a salute. Stahl and Brune, momentarily confused, followed suit a moment later.

  “Sir, I am SS-Sturmscharführer Kurzmann, and this is SS-Oberscharführer Brune and Sturmmann Stahl. We managed to escape the attack at the Lustschloss Lorieux. We figured this was the closest garrison, and came here to give our report.”

  The Leutnant gave a hesitant salute in return, his expression one of annoyed confusion. Kurzmann saw the junior officer was young, likely no more than twenty years old, and he walked with a limp, probably on light duty while recovering from an injury.

  “Lorieux? What are you talking about?” the officer asked. He turned and looked at the man next to him, bearing the insignia of a Gefreiter. “Klaus and the others went to Lorieux, yes? To fetch the SS men?”

  “Jawohl. They were to proceed straight to St. Nazaire,” the Gefreiter answered.

  It was Kurzmann’s turn to look confused. “What does St. Nazaire have to do with anything? The Tommies attacked us at Lorieux. Everyone there except us is dead. Your men in the lorries - they are almost certainly dead as well, for they were fired upon as we made our escape.”

  The Leutnant grew more angry at this. “What does St. Nazaire have…? There has been an attack at St. Nazaire, you idiot! The goddamn Tommies are swarming through the town, hundreds of their bastard Kommandos throwing grenades and blowing things up wherever they go! Every man who can stand is being mobilized to St. Nazaire. You were supposed to be collected and taken there, while we coordinated with my commanding officers to continue assembling the reinforcements.”

  “Well then, Leutnant, St. Nazaire wasn’t the only British target tonight. A strong force of well-armed infantry, possibly their Kommandos, assaulted the Lustschloss a couple of hours ago. They had the advantage of surprise and overwhelming firepower. As far as we know, we’re the only survivors.”

  The Leutnant shook his head. “There’s no way that British troops made it from the port to Lorieux already.”

  “Then there’s more than one operation
taking place right now,” Kurzmann stated. “For all we know, there might be Kommando forces all over France. This might be the beginning of a much larger attack, a series of night-time raids designed to confuse us and scatter our forces.”

  The Leutnant opened his mouth as if to say something, then frowned and pointed at the remnant of baguette that Brune was still holding. “If you’ve been fleeing the British, where exactly did you find that?”

  Brune gestured down the road, in the direction of the bakery. “We knocked on the door. He gave it to us. We even paid for it!” Brune let out a derisive snort, as if the idea of paying for the food offended him.

  “Something about this doesn’t smell right,” the Gefreiter said, his eyes narrowed. “I think these three were out prowling around, looking to find their way under the skirt of some farm girl. If Lorieux was attacked, these three weren’t there. How did you-”

  The Gefreiter didn’t have a chance to finish his accusation, for Brune had dropped his baguette and lifted the man half a metre into the air by the straps of his webbing,

  “I saw good men die tonight, cornered like rats in a barrel, and you accuse me of lying to you about it?” he roared. “I ought to kill you right now! I should break you in half and rip your guts out with my goddamn teeth!”

  The Leutnant stumbled back several paces, fumbling for the MP-40 slung over his shoulder. Kurzmann stepped over to Brune and put a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  “Put him down,” Kurzmann told Brune. “These men don’t know us, and have no reason to believe us. He has every right to be suspicious.”

  Brune snarled like a maddened animal, but he let go of the Gefreiter, letting the man drop to the ground, stumbling to maintain his balance. The young Leutnant had by now gotten his machine pistol unslung and in hand, although he had the presence of mind to keep it pointed at the ground. In the dark, Kurzmann didn’t see whether or not the MP-40’s bolt was drawn back and ready to fire.