Deciding that prudence was the best course of action, and having no wish to get shot by another German, Kurzmann carefully raised his hands up to the height of his shoulders.
“Leutnant, please, listen to us,” Kurtzmann said. “Lorieux was attacked tonight, by British soldiers, and we are likely the only ones who survived. We are not deserters, or drunkards, or men prowling for farmers’ daughters. I have received the Ritterkreuz for fighting the Ivans. My companions have been awarded the Eisenkreuz for bravery in combat. If you say you sent three lorries to Lorieux, then I am telling you, those men are almost certainly dead. The English are here, tonight, only a few kilometres away.”
The Leutnant let his machine pistol hang from its sling, and he exchanged a long look with his Gefreiter. “I suppose it isn’t something you’d lie about, is it?” the Leutnant finally said. “Let’s go inside, get on the telephone and the wireless.”
After several minutes of trying to get through to the chateau using both forms of communication, the Leutnant, whose name was Haas, agreed that something was amiss. There was no response to repeated radio hails, and the telephone switchboard operator couldn’t connect them to the chateau’s telephone, as the line seemed to be cut somewhere along the way. That was enough to convince Haas that something was seriously awry at Lorieux.
“Taube, when are the reinforcements expected to arrive?” Haas asked his Gefreiter, a taciturn man who appeared a couple of years older than him.
Taube thought for a moment. “We’re expecting another twenty men in the next half hour. Until then, it’s just my squad of ten.”
Haas considered this information, then looked to Kurzmann. “Take a half-squad of men and one of the lorries out front. Go back to Lorieux, but do not engage the Tommies if you encounter them.” He looked to Taube. “Go with them, and confirm what happened. Take the Kübelwagen with the wireless, have one of the men drive you. Once you have a sense of the situation, radio back a report.”
“Leutnant, what if the Tommies have left the area?” Kurzmann asked. “We don’t want to lose contact with them.”
“I agree,” Haas replied, nodding. “But if they aren’t at Lorieux, and you can’t determine their route, you are to return here immediately. I don’t want to keep losing men a handful at a time, when I can escalate the situation and bring in more support from battalion HQ. But we need to have a better grasp of their numbers and a general location, before anyone will give us more support, because there’s a small army of Tommies already rampaging through St. Nazaire as we speak.”
The five-man detachment formed up within a few minutes, and Kurzmann looked them over with barely-concealed disappointment. They were Heer second-line infantry, men recovering from injuries or otherwise unsuitable for front-line combat duty. Each of them, at least, had a Kar 98K with a full ammunition load, grenades, and a complete field kit. Taube carried his own MP-40 and a pair of 3-magazine pouches. Kurzmann and the other SS men took the opportunity to have some coffee and fill any gaps in their own kit, particularly grenades. Each of them filled a haversack with several Stielhandgranaten. If they encountered a superior force of British Kommandos, the long throwing distance of the “stick” grenades would give them an advantage in falling back and breaking contact.
The five Heer men seemed less than enthused at being assigned to go and make contact with several dozen British soldiers, but Haas - thankfully - seemed to accept the seriousness of the situation, and in short order the men were loaded into the flatbed of one of the two lorries. Brune rode with them in the bed, while Stahl claimed the driver’s seat. Kurzmann decided to ride in the Kübelwagen with Taube, leading the way.
The two vehicles covered the distance quickly, and half a kilometre from Lorieux, they pulled onto the side of the narrow road and dismounted. Taube made it clear that he was going to reconnoiter the chateau with Kurzmann, so Brune stayed behind, glowering at the Heer troops and bullying them into a half-decent position where they covered the road and remained concealed. Stahl came with Kurzmann.
Half an hour later, the entire patrol was walking the grounds of Lorieux, looking around as if in a daze. There were bodies everywhere, both inside and outside the chateau, and all of them were German. Most of them were in a state of partial undress, some killed before they even had a chance to pull on trousers or boots.
Kurzmann moved among the dead inside the chateau, noting with grim disgust that watches, rings, and other personal items were missing from the men, and all the rifles they found - the pistols and automatic weapons having been taken - were inoperative, their bolts removed and discarded. Looking inside the bedrooms, he was relieved to see that no one had died in their beds - at least these men had died fighting, albeit hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. It wasn’t a great death, but they’d given it their all, and from the occasional blood stains he saw on the stairwell, a few Tommies had paid for this outrage.
The sudden blast of a grenade on the ground floor snapped Kurzmann back into the present, and for an instant he feared they’d been ambushed by the Tommies, but there was only the shouting of several men coming from the floor below. He realized the Kommandos had left behind a booby trap, and likely more than just the one.
Kurzmann moved to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing. “Nobody touch anything!” he shouted down at the Heer, who were all frozen like statues, looking at the ground around them as if they were standing in the midst of a minefield.
“The goddamn Tommies have booby-trapped this place,” he told them. “Don’t open any doors or move any bodies. Don’t meddle with anything. Go back outside and keep an eye towards the perimeter, in case they return.”
Taube came into view below and looked up at Kurzmann. “He’s dead. Blast nearly tore his goddamn head off. Looks like they booby-trapped the liquor cabinet.”
Kurzmann grunted and nodded, then turned away from the stairs, a sudden worry coming to mind as he recalled the condition of the rooms he’d looked into. Moving carefully and cautiously, he went to his own room, checking the doorway for tripwires or any other concealed traps. Finding none, he moved inside, and as he feared, the Tommies had ransacked the room, tearing open the drawers of his wardrobe and the nightstand near the bed. Kurzmann wondered what they’d been looking for, when his gaze fell upon the hard leather medals case lying open on his bed. The small, velvet-lined case had a couple of his more trivial decorations inside, but Kurzmann noticed that his Iron and Knight’s Crosses were missing.
Kurzmann felt rage at the violation. It wasn’t because the Tommies had taken the medals - Kurzmann didn’t care for the “pieces of tin” the way so many others did, seemingly coveting the medals more than their own lives. It was because the British were able to muck about in his personal belongings and steal his personal property at their leisure. Kurzmann, like so many other soldiers throughout history, accepted the practice of battlefield plunder, but taking something from him without fighting him for the right to claim it felt distinctly blasphemous.
Glancing behind him to make sure no one was watching from the doorway, Kurzmann knelt and removed the drawer from the nightstand, then reached inside the recess, all the way to the back. He found what he hoped was there, and his hand emerged holding a leather pouch. Kurzmann opened it and quickly determined that its contents had been undisturbed, then he slipped the pouch into his trouser pocket. Standing up, he took one last look around, his gaze lingering on the medals scattered on his bed, before Kurzmann left the room.
After searching several other bedrooms, it became clear that the Kommandos had come to Lorieux not just to kill the SS soldiers vacationing there, but specifically, to kill men who’d won the highest military honors given by the German High Command, and moreover, steal those medals and bring them back to England as trophies for some Tommy general’s office. Every room he looked into, not only were men’s personal belongings ransacked, but more than one medal case was left on a bureau or on the floor, open and without any Iron Crosses or Knight’s
Crosses.
Kurzmann descended the stairs and saw Taube emerge from the cellar doorway, his face pale, eyes glassy and vacant. Kurzmann knew what Taube must have thought of the evidence no doubt everywhere in the cellar that pointed to some of the activities practiced down there, and given the man’s silence upon seeing Kurzmann, the SS man didn’t doubt that Taube lumped him in with all the others who’d sated their desires in that underground chamber.
“I told all of you not to explore,” Kurzmann snapped at Taube. “The Tommies might have booby-trapped the cellar. You could have ended up like your squadmate.”
Taube’s lip drew back in disgust. “What I found down there,” Taube gestured towards the cellar behind him, “that will be in my report.”
Kurzmann shrugged. “Report whatever you like. You think such sport went on without the knowledge of our superiors? Such things were...rewards...for outstanding bravery and service to the Reich.”
“The SS might condone such things, but my superiors in the Heer will be less amused,” Taube replied.
“I don’t give a shit what the Heer thinks,” Kurzmann shot back. “They have no power over me or my men. Now, have you found anything else, or are you going to continue to blush and grow faint over the abuses of subhuman trash like the Ivans?”
Taube drew his lips into a thin line, and his brows drew together in anger. “There are no signs as to where the British may have gone. They ransacked the pantry and the kitchen, and I don’t know the state of the wine cellar before their arrival, but it is looking rather vacant at the moment. No working weapons that we’ve been able to find, although the spent casings seemed to indicate the fight was short-lived, and most of the shooting was done by British weapons. Lots of expended .45 calibre pistol ammunition from their Thompsons, and .303 brass fired from Enfields. But we also found nine millimetre casings in places that seemed out of place for the defenders.”
“The Tommies were using our own weapons,” Kurzmann replied. “Captured MP-40s, perhaps.”
Taube nodded. “That was my thought. Either they brought them here for the mission, or perhaps they attacked another unit before they struck here, stripped them of their weapons?”
“It is pointless to speculate now,” Kurzmann answered. “But it does mean we cannot trust our ears when we hear our own weapons firing, and that is a disadvantage.”
The two men turned to the outside entrance as Stahl and Brune stepped into the chateau’s foyer. “We’ve finished the sweep of the grounds. Nothing but the bodies of our own men. We found no dead French or Ivans, either.”
“The Tommies must have either released them to fend for themselves, or took them wherever they went,” Kurzmann said.
“Do you suppose the French staff were part of this?” Taube asked.
Kurzmann shrugged again. “Who can say. They must have known we will suspect them of treachery, and after what happened here, my superiors aren’t likely to be believing, or lenient. Any of them who are found will probably be interrogated, tortured, and finally, shot.”
“Did you find anything to explain this?” Stahl asked. “Other than simply trying to kill us all?”
“They were after our pieces of tin,” Kurzmann answered. “Everyone’s room was searched. None of our Crosses are here. The Tommies even left the other medals behind. It was only the Crosses that mattered to them.”
Stahl and Brune looked at each other for a moment, their expressions a mix of anger and bemusement.
“But why...that makes no sense!” Stahl finally blurted out.
“I can only guess it was upon the order of some general,” Kurzmann replied. “None of the other, lesser medals were taken.”
“Yours are gone?” Brune asked. “You checked?”
Kurzmann nodded. “All three. And I looked in your rooms as well, both searched, no doubt taken. It didn’t seem like anything else was missing. Be careful if you go up there, though. One man is already dead from a hidden grenade.”
Taube cleared his throat. “We need to radio in a preliminary report, and then we’ll likely be ordered to either depart for St. Nazaire, or sent looking for these Kommandos. Either way, we’re wasting time.”
Kurzmann jerked his thumb towards the staircase. “If you two want to get anything, you’ve got five minutes. Then we’re on the move.”
Stahl and Brune nodded, then headed for the stairs. Kurzmann turned to Taube.
“All right, let us have a talk with your Leutnant, and tell him what we’ve found.”
Chapter 16
Near Saint-Joachim, France
0415 Hours
“Bollocks,” Lynch muttered, peering ahead through the windscreen of their commandeered sedan.
“Can you elaborate on that statement, Lance-Sergeant?” Stambridge asked from the back seat.
“Sorry, sir,” Lynch replied. “Roadblock up ahead, looks like. And we’re heading the wrong way, as it is. No way they’re going to let us pass without a look.”
The Commandos were several miles west of Lorieux, traveling in a convoy of five vehicles - the sedan, three lorries, and a smaller flatbed truck bringing up the rear. Lynch had no doubt that they could quickly overcome any resistance offered at the checkpoint, but they’d hoped to get to the coast in a matter of hours without incident. And now, they wouldn’t be able to pass through the tiny hamlet of Saint-Joachim without shooting it out with some Germans.
It was impossible to see how many men occupied the roadblock, as blackout conditions were being enforced, but one man was flagging them down with a red-lensed electric torch. Lynch had been driving with the driver’s side window lowered already, and his Browning 9mm automatic was next to his leg on the seat, cocked and locked. He was wearing a German helmet and uniform tunic on over his own. The garment was snug, but the poor fit would be unnoticed if they passed another vehicle in the night.
The ruse wouldn’t fool a checkpoint sentry for an instant, though. Lynch glanced towards Herring, sitting next to him in the front passenger seat. The trooper also wore a German helmet and tunic, and his MP-40 lay in his lap, its stock folded. Herring drew back the weapon’s bolt, careful to avoid pointing it at Lynch as he prepared the weapon. A look in the rear-view mirror showed Le Chasseur, sitting behind Lynch, draw his P-38 and check to make sure a round was chambered. The Frenchman was also wearing a German helmet and uniform, and his rifle sat, barrel up, between the tall man’s knees.
“Is there any hope of us bluffing our way through?” Lynch asked the resistance fighter.
“Non. This village has a telephone line, and by now, they must know about the attack to the south. They will want to know why we are going the wrong way.”
“Then we’re sticking to the plan, Lieutenant?” Lynch asked.
The sedan’s rear seat springs creaked slightly as Stambridge leaned forward. “I’m sure our friend is right, we won’t fool them for an instant. Carry on as we planned, and no hesitations.”
“No worries there,” Herring muttered.
Lynch shifted gears, slowing the vehicle. Closer, he saw a five-man section of German soldiers manning the checkpoint, a wooden pole barrier blocked the road. The man with the red-lensed torch had an MP-40 slung across his chest, while two other men carrying Mausers stood nearby. A few yards off of the other side of the road, there was a sandbagged machine gun position, where Lynch saw two men hunched over an emplaced weapon. Although it was hard to make out in the dark, the machine gun looked to have a magazine sticking up in front of its gunner, so Lynch presumed it was a captured British Bren gun, or more likely, a French M29 light machine gun. Either way, its .30 calibre slugs would cut through the sedan with no trouble at all.
Lynch brought the sedan to a stop a few feet from the lead German, a Gefreiter from the look of his uniform insignia. The junior non-commissioned officer, his rank equivalent to a corporal in the British army, approached the sedan and shined the beam of his torch in Lynch’s face.
“Papiere, bitte,” the Gefreiter said, asking for L
ynch’s papers.
“Jawohl,” Lynch replied with a nod, raising his Browning automatic from behind the door.
The German only had time to look agog at the pistol before Lynch shot him three times at point-blank range. The bullet impacts walked up the German’s chest as the recoil drove the pistol up with each shot, the last bullet catching the German in the hollow of his throat. The Gefreiter took a single awkward stumble back before pitching onto the ground with a gurgle, dead before he understood what had happened.
A heartbeat later, the checkpoint exploded with gunfire. Herring leaned out his window and blazed away with his MP-40 at the machine gun nest, while Lynch opened his door and threw himself out onto the ground, as the two German riflemen fumbled with their Mausers, one of them firing a wild round that blew a fist-sized divot out of the earth a foot from Lynch’s head. Somewhere further back in the convoy, the deep roar of a Thompson sounded, and the two Soldaten jerked with bullet impacts, tumbling to the ground dead.
There was a long burst of machine gun fire from the emplacement on the other side of the car, and Lynch saw the body of the sedan vibrate with the impact of high-velocity slugs, broken glass falling onto the ground all around him. A second later there was the lethal crack of a grenade burst, and half a man’s shredded hand landed, glistening, in the beam of the dropped torch.
“All clear!” Herring shouted from the other side of the sedan.
Lynch got to his feet, sweeping the area with the muzzle of his Browning. He gave a worried glance behind him, half-expecting to see Stambridge and their French guide dead in the back seat of the auto, but the two men were picking themselves up off the ground, having bailed out of the vehicle as Lynch himself had done.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 39
