“Casualties?” Stambridge hollered.
“I’m right as rain, Lieutenant,” Herring answered.
Lynch patted himself for a moment, carefully brushing away the shards of broken glass as he did so. “Everything as it should be, sir,” he replied. “No bits or bobs missing, and no unexpected leaks, either.”
“A simple ‘unharmed’ would suffice, Lance-Sergeant,” Stambridge said, checking the bolt and muzzle of his MP-40 for any dirt or debris.
There was a shout from the darkness beyond the checkpoint, and a Mauser fired, the muzzle flash illuminating a kneeling German for an instant. A bullet snapped through the air between Lynch and Stambridge. Le Chasseur knelt and fired back with his rifle, although Lynch didn’t see whether the German was hit. Several more voices shouted in German from within Saint-Joachim, and more muzzle flashes lit up the night, the air suddenly alive with the snap-crack of bullets passing nearby.
“Skirmish line!” Stambridge shouted.
Lynch moved to retrieve his Thompson from the cab of the Sedan, but a burst of slugs rore up the ground between him and the vehicle, several bullets thumping into the vehicle’s open door, so he knelt and grabbed at the MP-40 slung around the neck of the dead Gefreiter by his feet. The strap was caught, wrapped around and pinned under the dead man’s arm. Lynch wasn’t able to free the weapon until he drew his dagger and quickly sawed through the strap. Suitably armed, he retrieved a spare magazine from one of the dead man’s pouches, stuffing it into his belt. More gunfire cut through the air, but it was now answered by the bark of Lee-Enfield rifles and the short bursts of Bren guns. Commandos were pushing up towards the checkpoint, several troopers moving into the machine gun nest and wrestling around the weapon there, getting it pointed in the opposite direction.
“The civilians, sir,” Lynch warned Stambridge. “They’ll be right in the middle of this.”
Stambridge grunted, then turned towards the men moving up to their position. “Watch your fire, lads,” he told them. “We’ve got civilians in those houses.”
Several of the men gave brief acknowledgements, and the rate of British fire dropped, becoming more deliberate. As Lynch knelt in the dark, he estimated the German forces ahead of them as no more than a squad, maybe two.
“Lance-Sergeant, take your squad and push to the left!” Stambridge shouted. “Sergeant Howe, take your men and push to the right. Envelop the defenders and snuff them out. The longer we sit here, the faster the Germans catch up with us.”
“Third squad, to me!” Lynch shouted over the din of gunfire. “Corporal Nelson, where the bloody hell are you?”
A dark form moving up to his position resolved into the hulking shape of his long-time squadmate. “Right here, Tommy. No need to shout, eh?”
“Do you have the others?” Lynch asked.
“Like ducks in a row,” Nelson jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Lynch saw a file of men, hunched over with weapons at the ready, moving up behind Nelson. Herring, moving through the shattered cab of the sedan, emerged from the vehicle and held out Lynch’s Thompson. Lynch took it from him and gave him the spare MP-40 magazine.
“Might want to lose the feldgrau, eh?” Herring said, pointing at the German uniform tunic Lynch wore over his own uniform.
Lynch quickly removed the helmet and his stolen garment while focusing his attention in front of their position. The German firepower was growing steadily, the rapid-fire sounds of Mausers accompanied with the crackle of MP-40s, and somewhere off to the right flank, in front of Howe’s squad, there was heavier roar of a machine gun. A man screamed, the sound prolonged and hideous, and Lynch knew one of his fellow Commandos had just been injured grievously. There was nothing he could do about it but press forward, to go on the offensive and push through Saint-Joachim.
Lynch turned to Nelson and gestured towards the town. “Off we go, then. Low to the ground and fast, no one trips and shoots his mate in the dark, got it?”
There was a chorus of acknowledgements, and the eleven other men in Lynch’s squad followed him into the darkness.
Chapter 17
Saint-Joachim, France
0430 Hours
Lynch ducked as a Mauser bullet cut through the air an inch above his head. Raising his Thompson, he triggered a short burst, and in the flickering illumination of the parachute flare slowly drifting down over the town, he watched the German slump against the corner of a rock wall thirty yards away, his legs collapsing in death. To his left, Gibson, one of his squad members, knelt and fired three rounds rapid from his SMLE, nearly as fast as Lynch could have fired three aimed shots from his Browning automatic. To his right, Higgins and his loader lay on the ground, their Bren gun braced on its bipod. Higgins was firing the weapon in short, controlled bursts of three or four bullets each, shifting his fire to engage the hunched forms of German defenders as they fired and displaced from position to position.
“Nelson, take some lads and secure a position behind that wall!” Lynch shouted.
The hulking corporal nodded and moved at a crouch, slapping the backs of three other men as he moved. Another flare jumped up into the air on a column of sparks and smoke, rising from somewhere further back inside Saint-Joachim. Whoever was defending the town was making a real fight of it, slowing the British push north into the town while illuminating the area with a flare pistol, making any advancing Commandos easy targets for the dug-in German defenders.
Lynch watched as Nelson and his men scuttled to the low rock wall surrounding the backyard of a wood-and-stone home, glancing into the yard before each man took turns rolling over the top of the wall, exposing as little of themselves as possible before they were back into cover again. A couple of Mauser bullets knocked chips of stone from the wall, but none of the men were hit. Soon, the four Commandos were setting up a base of fire on the opposite side of the wall, engaging the Germans further to the north.
Although they’d been advancing for only a couple of minutes, Lynch was already impressed by the tenacity of the German defenders. All four of the Commando squads had now deployed, and they were pushing out into a sweeping envelopment of Saint-Joachim. Lynch’s squad had shifted further to the left, while Archie King and the men of Second squad had formed the centre at the roadblock. Sergeant Peabody had distributed the men of the special weapons squad among the envelopers, holding their firepower in reserve if it was needed. The overall result was a slow but inexorable push north, the British squeezing the Germans towards the opposite end of the village.
When a lull came in the German fire, Lynch ordered the rest of his squad ahead, and within seconds, they’d moved into the cover provided by the low stone wall. They were less than two hundred yards from the opposite end of Saint-Joachim, and from the muzzle flashes of the enemy, there were less than a squad of defenders left in the fight. The British had the overwhelming advantage in men and firepower, but the Germans were dug in, holding a small stone and wood framed house surrounded by a stone wall not much different than the one Lynch was crouched behind. The Germans were in a vicious crossfire, but although the rock wall was taking a terrible pounding, the Germans were more than capable of picking off any group of men that tried to rush their position.
Lynch ducked back into cove and turned to the nearest man, a trooper named Frost. “Don’t fancy taking a walk out there, do you now?”
“You’re having a laugh, aren’t you, Tom?” Frost growled at him through clenched teeth, as a burst of German machine-gun fire battered the wall above their heads.
“What we need,” Lynch replied, “is some indirect -”
Before he finished his sentence, Lynch heard the stonk of a mortar firing from their rear, and a few seconds later, the crack of high explosive as the mortar bomb detonated just outside the Germans’ defensive perimeter. Another bomb arced overhead a few seconds later, and this one landed plumb inside the walled yard. It was immediately followed by four more rounds over the course of a minute, each impacting somewhere within the German position
. Although they’d only brought with them the two-inch light mortar, Lynch knew that its high-explosive bombs, each a little over two pounds, were easily as effective as a hand grenade, if not more so, and he knew all too well the infantryman’s instinctive fear of mortar fire, how it felt like each bomb was seeking you out, and no matter where you hid, there was always the grim possibility it would find you.
Apparently he was not the only one who experienced that kind of fear. Shortly after the last of the mortar bombs landed, there was a hoarse shout from the German position, and a scrap of white cloth waved in the air at the end of a rifle bayonet. Lynch and the other sergeants called for a cease fire, and after a few seconds, the British gunfire slackened and died away.
“What do we do, Tom?” Frost asked Lynch.
“Keep the bastards in your sights,” Lynch replied, “and wait for your orders.”
Turning to his right, Lynch saw Stambridge and Captain Eldred, along with McTeague and several other Commandos, begin to approach the German position, moving up cautiously along Saint-Joachim’s only real road. Lynch debated moving up with them, but then thought better of it, deciding it was best to hold their flank and provide covering fire in case of an ambush. He knew that if either of the officers wanted his presence, they’d make it clear to him through the use of a runner.
Five minutes later, the surrender was concluded. Lynch gathered his men and joined the other squads at the northern end of the village. The Germans numbered seven survivors, only three of whom were combat effective, out of a total garrison of two squads. The Feldwebel in charge was propped against the stone wall, his left leg bound tightly with strips of cloth slowly turning crimson as his blood soaked through. The Commandos policed the Germans, stripping them of their Mausers, the rifle bolts removed and each smashed several times with a heavy sledge found in a nearby barn. A box of stick grenades, three MP-40s, and a pair of French M29 light machine guns were also confiscated along with their ammunition.
“Bit of a problem, Captain,” Lynch overheard Peabody speaking to Eldred nearby. “We can only find eighteen Jerries.”
Eldred looked to Stambridge, who shook his head. “Could be their squads were understrength, that’s not unusual. But it’s more likely they sent runners to the nearest garrison. Maybe on foot, maybe on bicycles. No one heard a motorcycle or an auto, so that’s good, at least.”
“No sign of a wireless, sir?” Lynch asked.
Stambridge shook his head. “No wireless, although as Le Chasseur said, there is a telephone line running through the village.”
Eldred glanced over at the German sergeant. “If he was smart, he would have attempted to get a call through right away, maybe even keep a man on the telephone through most of the fight, to pass along any information about us they can provide to whomever comes looking for us. Once the fight looked unwinnable to them, he sends a couple of runners and tries to keep us here as long as possible.”
Stambridge walked over to the Feldwebel, crouching next to the man and offering him a cigarette. The German hesitated for a moment, then nodded, and Stambridge shook one out of the carton. The German took it and put it between his lips, and Stambridge lit it, allowing the German to take a couple of long draws before offering him a drink from the bottle of good French brandy he’d taken from Lynch back at the chateau. The German shook his head, but after Stambridge unstoppered the bottle and had a sip, the German took the bottle and gave it a speculative sniff, his eyebrows rising in surprise.
“Now there’s a fellow who appreciates that good Frenchie brandy, to be sure,” Lynch said to Nelson, standing nearby.
“What’s this about good bloody brandy?” Nelson asked.
“Back at the chateau, under the seat of one of the lorries,” Lynch replied. “I shared it with Stambridge and he took the bottle.”
“Some bloody friend you are, tosser,” Nelson grumbled.
Lynch and Nelson then turned to their men, and over the next few minutes, the four Commando squads tended to their wounded, reloaded weapons, distributed ammunition, and several industrious men even took the time to produce spirit stoves and brew cups of tea for their squadmates. Lynch learned that they’d lost one man in Howe’s squad, and two others were wounded, although neither injury was serious. So far, the troop had gotten off with relatively few casualties, but Lynch feared their luck wouldn’t hold, especially if the German military forces in the area caught wind of several dozen Commandos running amok.
Once the men reformed at the Lorries and everyone embarked, Lynch examined the sedan they’d commandeered. The windscreen had been all but shot away, the last of the glass fragments knocked out of the frame with the butt of a rifle. A number of holes perforated the front of the vehicle, but thankfully the tyres remained intact and the radiator hadn’t sprung any leaks. Lynch climbed into the driver’s seat after sweeping it clear of any remaining glass fragments, and breathed a sigh of relief when the engine turned over and caught on the first try.
Lynch shifted the sedan into gear, and the five vehicles in their convoy moved through the town. Here and there Lynch saw a thin gleam of light, as the residents of Saint-Joachim peeked out from behind blackout curtains and watched the victors pass by. No one emerged from their home or called out to them, and Lynch realized that, although he and the other Commandos had won the brief skirmish, these locals did not have the ability to simply drive away from what had happened. Le Chasseur had gone from door to door and spoken to the villagers, trying to get them to understand that they were British military forces, and that they were leaving the area. Lynch hoped no one here was blamed for the German loss, that the Germans who had surrendered would not somehow implicate the locals in their defeat. Powerless to do anything to try to help them, and knowing anything they did for the villagers would just make it worse for them once the British left, Lynch understood why none of the locals cheered or even emerged from their homes. If those Germans left alive in the village saw the residents support the British or in any way or accept any gifts, their lives might be forfeit.
Lynch picked up Stambridge at the other end of town.
“Did the Jerry tell you anything, sir?” Lynch asked.
In the rear-view mirror, Lynch saw Stambridge rub his face with his hands, then look out the window.
“It was as we thought, Lance-Sergeant,” Stambridge replied. “They’d managed to get a telephone connection to the garrison in Crossac, so they know where we are, and our approximate numbers. They’d also gotten two runners away before we overwhelmed them. The Germans are going to be pressing us hard from now on.”
“Bloody hell,” Lynch muttered. “Still, very polite of him to tell us all that. He could have told you to stick a bayonet someplace very uncomfortable. Did you leave him the rest of that brandy?”
Stambridge didn’t reply for a minute. When he finally did, his voice was so quiet, Lynch barely heard him.
“I offered it to him, but he was already dead.”
Chapter 18
Crossac, France
0500 Hours
Kurzmann, Brune, and Stahl stood to the side, as the men under Haas’s command readied themselves for action. Between his report over the wireless from Lorieux, and the telephone report from Saint-Joachim only a few kilometres away, it was clear the British were operating in strength, and they weren’t heading south towards St. Nazaire, but were instead moving west, towards the coast.
A quick discussion between Kurzmann, Haas, and Taube had concluded with everyone agreeing that this force of Kommandos wasn’t part of the harbour raid, but was instead an independent force operating in the area at the same time, either using the confusion in St. Nazaire as cover, or causing more chaos and confusion in order to delay German reinforcements moving south. Either way, they agreed that not only did they need to escalate the event up the chain of command, they needed to pursue and maintain contact with the British, in order to pin down where along the coast the Tommies would be awaiting extraction, as that had to be their plan.
And, since daylight was fast approaching, and the British would never attempt an extraction during the day, the British would go to ground and wait an entire day before the next window of opportunity. That gave the Germans plenty of time to track them down and wipe them out.
Unfortunately, convincing Haas’ battalion HQ of what was going on took more effort than they’d expected. With the mobilization in response to the attack to the south, and partisan activity throughout the area over the course of the last year, Haas’ superiors were reluctant to let them off the leash and allow them to hunt these British, never mind provide them with reinforcements. Of late, too many small-town garrisons were guilty of panicked requests for support to fend off hordes of bloody-minded Maquis, or Tommies skulking through the dark with explosives and daggers in hand. It took ten minutes of detailed reporting, followed by waiting for HQ to attempt to raise the Saint-Joachim garrison on the telephone, before Haas was granted permission to pursue the British west. In addition, a reinforced platoon would be detached from a sizable body of motorized troops being sent south from Rennes, some eighty kilometers to the north. While it would take that unit several hours to reach them, Haas asked that the new arrivals meet up with them in Assérac, a number of kilometers to the west and much closer to the coast.
Although Kurzmann did not say anything out loud, he was concerned that their numbers wouldn’t be anything near enough to deal with the British Kommandos. He knew they possessed machine guns and possibly heavier weapons, such as mortars, and between what he’d experienced at Lorieux, and the report they’d received from Saint-Joachim, the British numbered upwards of fifty men, all of them highly trained, well-equipped, and extremely motivated. They’d gone through the Saint-Joachim garrison - twenty men - in a few minutes’ time. Realistically, with their weapons and training, the British force was worth at least twice their number in the calibre of rear-echelon, garrison-quality troops the Germans were able to field against them. Kurzmann knew all too well that, between North Africa and the Ostfront, Germany’s most capable units were nowhere to be found in France. If they weren’t careful in how they engaged the British, Haas and the other Heer men would be little more than meat fed into a sausage grinder.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 40
