By the time Kurzmann and Taube’s half-squad had returned to Crossac, Haas’ two other squads had arrived, led by a Feldwebel named Vogt, an older man with gaunt features and fringes of grey in his close-cropped hair. Vogt sized up Kurzmann and the other two SS in a single glance, giving them a respectful nod. Kurzmann wondered if Vogt chafed at being put under the command of a junior Leutnant near to half his age, but in the way Vogt acted around Haas, Kurzmann saw that, no matter what the older man’s thoughts might have been, he was good at keeping them to himself. There was no disrespect, no insubordinate tone. Vogt was clearly a professional soldier who’d likely served under a number of officers over the years, and just kept his head down and did his job the best he could. Kurzmann respected that attitude, and hoped he’d be able to form a good relationship with Vogt.
Ten minutes after concluding the telephone call to Haas’ superiors, the platoon was ready to move out. Vogt’s two squads had arrived in a pair of old French lorries commandeered as troop transports, bringing the number of vehicles at their disposal to four lorries and the Kübelwagen. Haas and Kurzmann would ride in the smaller vehicle, along with a driver and a another man in the front passenger seat, who was responsible for the French-made Reibel light machine gun in a pintle mount on the passenger-side dashboard. The remaining men were distributed between the four lorries, along with Stahl and Brune riding with the first two transports.
Although they were more than thirty men, there were only a handful of machine pistols among Haas and the NCOs, and aside from the Reibel, their force only possessed two French magazine-fed light machine guns. Even with their numbers and training notwithstanding, Kurzmann knew they would be severely outgunned by the British. As they departed from Crossac and headed west, towards Saint-Joachim, Kurzmann leaned towards Haas and expressed his concerns.
“Do you not have access to better weapons?” he asked Haas.
The Leutnant shrugged. “What we have now is what we had when I came here three months ago. As far as I know, we haven’t had MG-34s, or mortars, or German-made vehicles in almost a year. Everything was requisitioned for the front-line units. The remainders were deemed suitable for keeping the peace here in France.”
Kurzmann looked at him with raised eyebrows. “So is there not a single quality machine gun in the whole country?”
Haas laughed grimly. “Oh, I’m sure the units along the coasts have better weapons and equipment, but those of us here, well beyond what is deemed to be the coastal defence network, we’re only expected to face off against the occasional band of partisans. You have to admit, even the French machine guns are adequate against that rabble.”
“These Kommandos have many more MGs and machine pistols than we do,” Kurzmann pointed out. “The Lorieux garrison didn’t have a single MG among them, they only had rifles and a couple machine pistols. We didn’t stand a chance when the Tommies attacked.”
Haas was silent for a moment, looking out towards the other side of the road. Finally he turned back. “I am sorry about what happened there, and I am also sorry we didn’t believe you at first. It just seemed too ridiculous. But listening to Taube, about what he saw there, heroes of the Fatherland shouldn’t die like that.”
“I can think of worse ways for a hero to die,” Kurzmann replied. “I’ve seen enough horrible death to know that. What angers me is that they came for us, not to with the intention of killing us, at least not because it would help their war efforts, but they came to kill us in order to take our medals. They took every Cross they could find. It was done for a very specific purpose, probably some kind of political show of success.”
“That’s disgusting,” Haas said, his expression darkening.
“It’s war, is what it is,” Kurzmann answered. “You do whatever it takes to win. If I had been ordered to attack a British base and kill men and steal their medals, I would do it without hesitation. It wouldn’t be anywhere near to the worst thing I’ve done so far in this war.”
To that, Haas said nothing for a long moment, before he looked away, unable to face Kurzmann as he spoke.
“Taube also told me what he found in the cellar of the chateau.”
“So he told me he would. Did you pass along his report to your superiors?” Kurzmann asked.
Haas continued to look away. “No, not yet. I will focus on finding the Tommies before worrying about the rest. But such things should not be done by soldiers of the Fatherland.”
“There are many things that should not be done by soldiers,” Kurzmann replied. “But in war, you do them anyway. How long did you serve in the Heer?”
Haas finally turned and looked at Kurzmann. “I received my commission two months after the fall of France.”
“And how long were you fighting along the Ostfront?”
“I went into Russia in the first week of October, and I was wounded two weeks later,” Haas replied, his cheeks glowing red with embarrassment.
It was Kurzmann’s turn to look away. “Then do not talk to me of what soldiers should and should not do, Leutnant.”
A few minutes later, they encountered the two runners sent from Saint-Joachim. Kurzmann did some mental calculations, and decided the two men hadn’t been in any great hurry to reach Crossac. They’d likely laid low somewhere with a good view of the road, waiting patiently until they were sure that the approaching vehicles weren’t carrying more British troops. They had nothing much more to say that Haas and the rest didn’t already know, aside from the fact that their Feldwebel had sent them once the British began to employ a mortar, as it was clear the remaining garrison defenders would simply be bombed to death from range if they didn’t eventually surrender. Haas ordered the two men to jump aboard one of the Lorries and accompany them.
Upon reaching Saint-Joachim, they were greeted by the six remaining members of the garrison, only three of them unwounded. The men stated that the British had disarmed them and tended to their wounded as best they could in the short time they remained. Their better weapons had been taken, while their rifles had all been rendered useless. The telephone wire into the village had been severed, of course, and they’d been locked in the cellar of one resident’s home, but the locals had let them out after a few minutes, probably fearing that if they didn’t, they might be considered in league with the British. Haas considered bringing them along with the two runners, but after discussing it with Vogt and Kurzmann, it was decided that even if the three unwounded men would be worth bringing, that would mean leaving their injured comrades behind.
In the end, the six men were instructed to commandeer a wagon and horses from the locals, then the three uninjured men were to take the wounded back to Crossac, where they would be tasked with manning the telephone and the wireless set left at Haas’ platoon headquarters. The men readily agreed to this, clearly unwilling to face off against the British again. Several of Haas’ men helped the Saint-Joachim defenders round up the horses and prepare the wagon, then load the wounded men aboard. The two runners staying with Haas watched their departing comrades with envious expressions.
Just before they departed for Assérac, Vogt approached Kurzmann and Haas.
“The survivors said one of the Tommies gave their Feldwebel a cigarette and a drink before he bled to death, and it looked like the Feldwebel was giving the Tommy information before he died. They don’t know what he told the British, but I can’t imagine it was anything too important.”
“Did you know the man?” Kurzmann asked.
Vogt glanced over to where the bodies of the garrison’s dead had been laid out along one side of the road. “Not really, no. Different company, and we’re all pulled together from somewhere else anyway. Hardly anyone here in this area served together in the same units a year ago.”
Kurzmann glanced at Haas, who was in conversation with the Kübelwagen’s driver, then leaned in towards Vogt. “Why is a grey-hair such as yourself stuck here, watching over the likes of him?” he nodded towards Haas. “He doesn’t seem a bad sort, but I w
ould think you’d be of more use on the front somewhere.”
Vogt smiled at him, then tapped the left side of his chest. “Took a piece of shrapnel the size of my thumb through the lung six months ago. Now, I get winded if I run or march with a full kit. So, they sent me here. It’s not so bad. I’ve been in uniform since two months before then end of the last gottverdammt war. If I don’t see another battlefield, that’s all right by me.”
“And now you’re chasing these bastard Tommies, eh?” Kurzmann said, smiling.
Vogt shrugged. “If I die today or tomorrow in a French field, that’s all right to me as well. I’ve given my whole life to the Fatherland. Not sure I want to end up like all those poor wounded bastards who drank themselves to death on cheap Korn or Schnapps after the first war.”
“No one is waiting for you when the war is over?” Kurzmann asked.
Vogt smiled and patted the MP-38 slung across his chest. “This is my only true love.”
A moment later, Haas called to the two men, and once they boarded their respective vehicles, the convoy was on their way to Assérac.
Chapter 19
Four Miles North-West Of Assérac, France
0630 Hours
“If the Jerries find us here,” Nelson muttered, shaking his head, “we are well and truly buggered.”
Lying prone in the thick brush along the side of a road, Lynch found he was inclined to agree. After two hours of carefully negotiating a labyrinth of roads, back roads, and cart trails, led by Le Chasseur, the Commandos had managed to reach a largely uninhabited peninsular region to the north-west of Assérac, about a mile north of where they’d first come ashore. It was isolated from major traffic routes, and its geography meant that the Germans couldn’t bring in immediate reinforcements from anywhere other than east of their position. According to Le Chasseur, since the peninsula lay within the mouth of a much larger bay, and the area surrounding it was under more regular surveillance, there wouldn’t be any shore garrison between them and the ocean, especially since there was no local population to support a garrison.
Of course, it also meant they were trapped, with nowhere to go if the Germans found them. This side of the peninsula was perhaps a mile and a half wide and a mile deep, and while that was enough space to hide sixty people for a short period of time, if the Germans knew where to look, they’d be well and truly stuffed. Lynch thought back to Dunkirk, the days of waiting on that cursed beach, as Stukas dropped bombs and strafed with their machine guns, and all the while there was the inevitable pressure around the evacuation site, the slow, inexorable grinding away of the Allied troops forming the bulwark that protected almost four hundred thousand men.
But back then, Lynch reflected, they’d had the RAF in the air above, doing their damnedest to fend off the Stukas. And they’d had the Royal Navy, bravely sailing their destroyers close enough to the beaches to get men aboard, using the hundreds of civilian vessels swarming about like a mass of ducklings surrounding their mothers. Today, they had no air support, and there was no surface fleet to defend them or ferry them to safety. There were only the two lightly-armoured vessels that dared not approach until the cover of night had fully cloaked the ocean.
Lynch glanced at his watch and estimated they’d need to evade the Germans for at least eighteen, maybe twenty hours, before they could begin getting off of French soil and back to Blighty. Until then, it was the duty of his squad to observe the road running north-south in front him, and ensure that the others had plenty of time to take action if the Germans arrived.
“Alright Harry, take your section and push one hundred yards south,” Lynch said, gesturing to his right. “Make sure your Bren team has a good field of fire down the lane, but no shooting unless there’s no choice in the matter, or you hear my lads fire first.”
“Oi, you sound like one of those ponces on the training grounds!” Nelson replied. “That extra stripe has turned you into a right git, it has.”
“Well, this git is telling you to take your position and stop being a bell-end, now,” Lynch shot back.
Nelson gave him a grin and nodded, then threw a poor excuse for a salute, before turning and rounding up the other five men of his section and moving south.
The rest of the Commandos had set up a small encampment a hundred yards behind Lynch’s position. From there, it was about a mile to the beach, and there were several rough, narrow roads and trails leading in that direction. Le Chasseur had told them the area was used for picnics and recreational camping before the war, so the terrain would be easily crossed on foot, even in the dark. This would be both a blessing and a curse, because any ground that made movement easy for them, made it easy for the Germans as well.
Eventual discovery by the Germans was, however, a secondary concern at the moment. Now that they’d stopped and everyone had disembarked from the vehicles, the Commandos were forced to deal with the Soviet prisoners they’d brought with them. Abused, terrified, malnourished, and thoroughly traumatized, they were not only useless in any sort of tactical situation, they were going to be a constant distraction during a time when the Commandos couldn’t afford a moment’s lapse in vigilance. Lynch sympathized with how horrible their situation was, and he didn’t question that bringing the Soviets with them was the right thing to do - if left back at the chateau, they would most certainly have been shot out of hand. But they were a dozen non-combatants to look after, to feed and shelter and protect from any German attacks against their position. And of course, eventually, evacuate them off the coast and back to England.
Lynch’s attention was drawn to the sound of soft footsteps behind him, and he rolled to his side and looked back to see the Frenchman, Le Chasseur, approaching. The lanky partisan never went anywhere without his rifle and his rucksack, understandable when your life depended on the kit you carried with you, and you might have to move at a moment’s notice. Le Chasseur nodded to Lynch, then knelt down next to him, the Frenchman’s gaze sweeping across the road to their front.
“If you have not been told,” Le Chasseur spoke softly, “one of the two men wounded badly at the chateau died a few minutes ago.”
“Damn,” Lynch muttered. “Which of them was it? I think Page had the worst of it.”
The Frenchman thought for a moment. “Oui, the man with dark red hair, that was his name.”
Lynch shook his head. “Died before seeing the sunrise. Bloody hell. Poor bastard.”
Le Chasseur said nothing for a long moment before he spoke again. “This area, it is very quiet. No homes, no farms, no reason for anyone to visit here today,” the Frenchman said. “If luck is with us, we won’t be discovered here.”
“You don’t think Jerry will come around?” Lynch asked.
Le Chasseur shrugged. “What the Germans do, I cannot say. The attack on St. Nazaire will draw many to the south, but they know we are in the area. However, there is much ground to cover in one day’s time, and the men sent to do this, they will not be of the best quality.”
“Let’s bloody hope so,” Lynch replied.
“But here, we do not have to worry about innocents finding us,” the Frenchman continued. “Too many of my countrymen have paid for the actions of our armies fighting against the Boche. If we were discovered by civilians, we would have to hold them here, and put them in danger if the Germans come. Or we would have to kill them, if they fled from us. And if we did not, they would tell the Germans, because if it was discovered that they were here, and said nothing, they would be shot.”
Lynch shook his head. “I have fought with Maquis before, so I have. Their lives are hard enough, but at least they have the chance to fight back.”
“Not all who live here have the strength or the will to fight the Boche,” Le Chasseur said.
“No, I don’t blame those, for some have too much to lose, to be sure. I just feel for those who want to live their lives in peace, and the likes of me and mine come along, and make their world a shambles.”
“The staff at the c
hateau,” the Frenchman said.
Lynch nodded. “Aye, I fear for what’ll happen to them, so I do. Or some poor bastards come along here looking for a nice place to have a spot of lunch, only to find us lot lying about. No matter what we do to them, Jerry won’t bloody care a bit.”
Just then, Lance-Corporal Hutchins, Captain Eldred’s batman and runner, approached at the double and nodded to Lynch.
“Captain wants a word with you, Tom,” Hutchins said, then looked to Le Chasseur. “And, ah, you as well, sir. All squad leaders are meeting now.”
Lynch climbed to his feet, then looked to Herring. “Come and get me if anything shows along the road.”
Herring nodded once, then turned back to continue watching the ground in front of them. Lynch shouldered his Thompson, then he and Le Chasseur followed Hutchins back a hundred yards, to where the vehicles had been parked under the nearest available trees. Off to one side, the Russian civilians were huddled in a group, while a couple of Commandos passed out food taken from the chateau. The Russians wore a mix of plundered German uniforms, along with blankets and other linens wrapped around them like shawls. From what Lynch had seen of their emaciated bodies, they were so sparse of frame, the cold of an early Spring morning would be intolerable.
On the other side of the makeshift encampment, a couple of lads were crouched around spirit stoves and getting a proper brew going. No matter the situation, Lynch noted, the British soldier could be counted upon to find somewhere to brew up a pot of char. As he approached, Lynch saw a trooper ladling tea into a tall silver teapot, no doubt plundered from the chateau, and another man carried it - on a silver platter, no less - over to a cluster of men comprising the command structure of the troop. Along with the teapot, there were a number of delicate-looking teacups arranged around the platter, and the server began pouring out cups of char and handing them around to the officers and squad leaders. Embarrassed, Lynch nevertheless took a knee alongside McTeague and accepted a cup of tea, brewed strong and mixed with sweetened, condensed milk. The first sip nearly seared his lip off, but in the early-morning chill, he didn’t mind much, realizing it was the first hot drink he’d had in nearly a day.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II Page 41
