Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume II

by Jack Badelaire

  “These men are trained in stealth and swift overland movement,” Kurzmann warned. “Their training focuses on being able to slip between pickets and escape detection. We will have a difficult time keeping them contained if they decide they need to break out.”

  Haas considered this. “We will push out two sections, one to each flank, send them out three hundred metres in each direction and order them to spread out wide and keep well-hidden. That will mean two sections remain here, in addition to the heavy weapons. If the Tommies push us here, we cut them down. If they try to escape, we will hopefully catch sight of their movements, and then shift forces to keep in contact with them.”

  Haas’ runner returned from his mission, and after consulting a map, and drawing out the necessary details, Haas, Vogt, and Kurzmann devised a suitable message to be relayed to Haas’ superiors. After a bit of consideration, Stahl was tasked to make the journey with the runner. Both men stripped their kit down to the bare essentials, and brought with them no weapons other than their bayonet knives and pistols.

  “Remember,” Haas told the two runners, “it is imperative that reinforcements arrive before sundown. Once it is dark, there is no way we’ll be able to contain the British, and the chances they’ll be able to escape will greatly increase. We need more men, mortars, and preferably, more armoured cars or a light tank.”

  With that, the two runners departed. Haas’ men shifted their positions to cover the flanks, and the MG-08 machine guns were sighted on the enemy. Within a short amount of time, the surviving German forces had prepared themselves as best they could.

  Surveying the disposition of his men, Haas turned to Kurzmann and gestured to the sniper’s scoped rifle.

  “Are you willing to put that to use?” Haas asked.

  “After all that has happened, it would be my pleasure,” Kurzmann answered.

  Chapter 23

  2350 Hours

  Four Commandos died before sundown.

  The last was Alby, Higgins’ loader. The two-man Bren team had been in the process of changing their machine gun’s barrel, when the side of Alby’s head had exploded all over his gunner and their weapon. The shot had come from some distance away, well on the far side of the road to the east, and although Lynch and the others had opened fire on the sniper’s suspected position, like all the other times, there was no indication they’d hit anything.

  Since the Germans’ retreat to the eastern side of the road, there had been intermittent fire between both sides, when movement on one side drew fire from the other. None of these engagements resulted in casualties on the British side, or observed casualties on the Germans’ side. However, starting around mid-afternoon, a German sniper had begun terrorizing the British. The shooter was careful, stealthy, patient, and above all, exceedingly accurate. With only six shots, the sniper had killed four men, and wounded two others, one seriously.

  Since sundown, the sniper had gone silent. Lynch and the other sergeants and officers had met to discuss the situation, because the morale of the men had plummeted to its lowest point in the entire mission. The general consensus was that the sniper’s job had been to soften the British and keep them in place while reinforcements arrived from further inland. Determined to avoid further casualties, the Commandos were ordered to not fire on movement along the Germans’ front, unless it was clear the enemy was making a general assault. So directed, the men sat and listened as the lorries along the road to their front were boarded, and munitions or other equipment unloaded, under the cover of darkness.

  That had been more than two hours ago. Now, Lynch knelt in the darkness and listened to the sound of creaking metal and squealing bearings, the unmistakable sounds of armour on the move. The noises came from the north-east, the tanks no doubt moving down the road to arrive shortly and begin the push into the British positions. When that occurred, they were well and truly stuffed, because their one anti-tank weapon, the Boys rifle, was all but useless against an actual tank, especially at night and without the ability to all but walk up to the panzer and pick the perfect weak point to fire upon with impunity.

  And, of course, it wouldn’t just be armour - there would be men in transports, perhaps even a light artillery piece or two. Now that the Germans knew precisely where they were, there would be no mucking about on their part. This would be the - Lynch searched for the term - the Schwerpunkt, the point where the Germans would concentrate their forces and crush the British through weight of men and metal.

  “Officers want to see you, Tom.” It was Hutchins, come to find him for another meeting. Lynch followed him, staying low and moving without haste, for the human eye saw movement in the dark better than it saw shapes or colors.

  Lynch found Eldred and Stambridge speaking with Le Chasseur. The older Maquisard looked worried, hands clutched hard around the stock of his rifle. It was the most out of sorts he’d ever seen the man in the days they’d traveled together.

  “Lance-Sergeant, I imagine you can hear the approaching enemy armour?” Eldred asked.

  Lynch nodded. “Seems to be coming along slowly, but they’ll be here soon, so they will.”

  “I have seen them,” Le Chasseur stated. “A pair of Renault tanks. Not much compared to a Panzer III or IV, but more than capable of making our lives extremely difficult.”

  “Renaults? R35s? Small, but they are hearty, sir,” Lynch said. “Our Boys rifle is useless against one of those, never mind two.”

  “We must possess something capable of disabling them,” Eldred said. “Explosive charges, hand grenades, fuel bombs, perhaps?”

  “Men would have to get close to do that, to be sure,” Lynch answered. “And even if such tactics worked, the tanks will be supported by infantry. Any poor bugger who tries to blow up one of those bloody things, they’ll get shot to pieces by the Jerries all around it.”

  “Well then,” Stambridge spoke up. “We shall just have to cripple both tanks before they form up with their infantry support and push into our position.”

  Everyone turned and looked at Stambridge as if he were mad.

  “We are Commandos,” Stambridge continued. “We are not trained or tempered for defence, but for the attack, the surprise assault. I will take Lance-Sergeant Lynch and five other men, as well as several of our satchel demolition charges, and we shall cripple those tanks and spread havoc among the German reinforcements. Hopefully we can buy the rest of you another hour or two.”

  Eldred did not hesitate. “Very well, do it, and quickly. Leave a few of the satchel charges, however. If you don’t survive and the tanks are still mobile, we may need them to finish what you started.”

  It took no more than a minute for Lynch and Stambridge to gather five more men. Although Nelson voiced his desire to accompany them, Lynch ordered his friend to remain and lead the rest of the squad. Instead, He picked Herring, Frost, and Stilwell, while Stambridge borrowed two more men from Sergeant Howe’s squad. Each man was armed with a Thompson or an MP-40, and each man carried a satchel charge and several hand grenades. The charges contained a half-dozen blocks of demolition explosive and a pull-fuze with a ten-second timer.

  Le Chasseur set out with the seven Commandos, leading them through the darkness. Lynch’s mind turned to the German sniper, hidden somewhere in the darkness, and he wondered if they would pass in front of the man’s sights and earn a bullet for their haste, for the men were eschewing stealth for speed. The approaching armour could not be more than a few hundred yards away at this point, and every second they dallied, the armour drew closer to their position.

  Once again, Lynch marveled at Le Chasseur’s stamina, his sure-footedness, and his acute night-sight. The Frenchman seemed to effortlessly dodge every tree and low-hanging branch, stepping over every root or half-buried rock. He reminded Lynch of one of the red-skinned Indians of American legend, moving through the forests without being seen or heard by settlers or cowboys, until they attacked with musket, bow, or tomahawk.

  Within a couple of minutes, the
y reached a point two hundred yards to the north-east of their most northern position. Approaching them, Lynch and the others saw a column of German and captured French vehicles approaching, the two Renault R35 tanks out front, led by a Kübelwagen some twenty yards ahead. The lead car’s headlamps were covered in blackout hoods, only thin slits of light illuminating the road ahead, and none of the other vehicles were moving with lights. It was a dangerous practice, prone to accidents as drivers misjudged distance and direction, but he knew they would not approach an enemy position any other way.

  The eight men crouched in the brush just on the other side of the ditch running parallel to the road. Stambridge used his binoculars to look over the approaching column, then he turned and leaned close to whisper in Lynch’s ear.

  “The tanks are moving with open driver hatches,” Stambridge told him. “and the commanders are sitting on their rear turret hatches. The vision blocks on those Renaults are probably so small, there’s no safe way to drive one in column at night without having a clear field of view.”

  “If we can get a satchel charge into a driver’s lap,” Lynch said, eyes widening, “we’d pop the bloody tank like a firecracker in a tin can.”

  Stambridge shook his head. “That’s an impossible throw. Getting a seven-pound satchel charge through that hatch, you’d have to be right in front of the damn thing. Can’t be done.”

  “Maybe not a satchel, to be sure,” Lynch replied. “But a Mills bomb, that’s another matter, so it is. I bet you a bottle of best brandy I can get a grenade into the lap of that lead driver.”

  “If you only take out the first tank, the second will button up immediately,” Stambridge pointed out. “We’ll have to take both at the same time. And then there’s the men in that lead car. If they see anything, they’ll fire on us immediately.”

  Lynch nodded. “Two men apiece with grenades on the tanks, two more fire on the car, the remaining two provide covering fire on the column.”

  “Excellent suggestion, Lance-Sergeant,” Stambridge replied, “I’ll hit the Kübelwagen with our guide, here. The rest of you pair up, and ready yourselves for action.”

  The men had only seconds to prepare before the tanks approached within grenade range. The lead scout car passed their position, the passengers scanning the terrain around them, bristling with weapons. Lynch pulled a Mills bomb from his webbing and tugged free the pin, holding down the arming spoon with his fingers. Three other Commandos did the same, and as the tanks drew within a few yards, Stambridge whispered an order to the others.

  Lynch took a deep breath, let it out halfway, and then threw his hand grenade. The small, oval bomb flew through the air, glanced off the upper glacis of the first tank, bounced up against the raised driver’s hatch, and then Lynch cursed as he watched the grenade drop back down onto the upper glacis and slide down towards the front of the tank. At the same time, Frost’s grenade bounced off the left-hand edge of the driver’s hatch, then disappeared inside the tank’s interior.

  There was a shout of alarm from the driver a split-second before Lynch’s grenade detonated at the very front of the tank’s upper glacis, spraying the front of the hull with shrapnel. A moment later, Frost’s grenade exploded inside the tank, drowning out a scream from the driver and causing the tank’s commander, sitting on the rear turret hatch, to cry out in pain as his legs were shredded by grenade fragments. Behind the wounded tank commander, two more grenades detonated, blowing the driver of the second tank into steaming pulp and fatally wounding the tank’s commander, who had been sliding into the body of the tank in preparation for engaging their ambushers.

  The instant the first grenades detonated, Le Chasseur fired a round from his Mauser rifle, killing the Kübelwagen’s driver as Stambridge emptied his MP-40’s 32-round magazine, walking the slugs from the front to back and forward again. One of the passengers managed to get off a single short burst of fire, his weapon spraying bullets into the dark, before everyone in the lead car was dead. A moment later, a German stick-grenade thrown by Le Chasseur landed in the front seat of the car, detonating a moment later and nearly cutting the Kübelwagen in half with the blast.

  Lynch didn’t waste any time. As soon as the first two grenades detonated, he bounded to his feet, satchel charge in his hands, and rushed out in front of the tank as it began to slow its advance. Pulling the charge’s friction fuse, Lynch hurled the charge by its sling into the air, dropping it through the driver’s hatch and into the lap of the dead German within.

  Shots cracked past him, fired from near one of the transports further back in the column, and Lynch ducked and scuttled back into the ditch along the western side of the road, throwing himself into cover. Two seconds later, the Renault R35 - more than ten tons of machinery and steel plating - blew apart spectacularly, flinging large slabs of razor-edged armour plate and various components all across the road.

  Trooper Stilwell, hiding in the ditch with Lynch, rose to a crouch and armed his satchel charge, then flung it underneath the second Renault tank as it slowly lurched to a halt, its driver little more than a dismembered corpse scattered throughout the interior of the tank. The badly wounded commander had no time to drag himself free of the tank before the charge detonated below the tank’s chassis, buckling the armour plating underneath the tank, shattering several bogie wheels on either side of the chassis, and breaking both tracks.

  By now, the rest of the column had stopped and men were dismounting and firing towards their unseen attackers, Mauser rifles and machine pistols sending lead slashing through the brush along both sides of the road. Lynch heard bullets crack overhead, gouts of dirt kicking up from the edges of the ditch. Lynch armed and threw another grenade, trying to get as much distance as possible out of the throw. Herring, prone along the outside of the ditch, emptied his MP-40 in several long bursts, sweeping 9mm slugs back and forth across the road, his fire joined by that of Frost and the two men from Howe’s squad.

  “Fall back!” Stambridge shouted over the roar of weapons fire. “Move, move, move!”

  Germans began to advance in bounds, their comrades providing covering fire. Lynch slapped Herring on the backside and the wiry Commando pivoted and ran past Lynch, reloading on the move as Lynch raised his Thompson and began firing short bursts down the side of the road, aiming low to catch any Germans who might be seeking cover in the ditch.

  One of Howe’s troopers, hoping to dramatically slow down the German advance, pulled the fuze on his satchel charge and whipped it around through the air by its sling, hoping to use to the momentum to reach the first German soldiers. But a Mauser bullet caught him in the hip, spinning the Commando around and knocking him down. His squadmate screamed a warning at the others, then threw himself into the ditch, landing on top of Lynch and flattening them both.

  The satchel detonated with a thunderclap, shredding the underbrush and turning the wounded Commando into a spray of liquefied tissue and bone fragments whizzing out into the dark.

  Lynch and the other Commando struggled to untangle themselves from each other, finally crawling apart and moving up the ditch in a crouch, escaping from the advancing Germans, who had momentarily paused when the satchel detonated. Above him, Herring and Stambridge both emptied MP-40s up the road, while their French guide knelt and took aimed shots at their pursuers.

  “Can someone throw a bloody satchel charge the proper way?” Stambridge roared at his men.

  Frost armed his charge, and careful to not expose himself unduly to enemy fire, whirled it around over his head before throwing it back towards the Germans. This was followed immediately by grenades from Stilwell and Howe’s remaining trooper. The trio of explosions cut down several approaching Germans, and drove the remainder to cover.

  Spraying bullets behind them, the surviving members of the attack scrambled into the underbrush and fled the regrouping Germans.

  Chapter 24

  March 29Th, 0015 Hours

  Kurzmann and Brune slipped further behind the British lines. Th
e two men moved slowly, perhaps only a metre a minute, but both men knew that discipline kept men alive as much as courage, and although Kurzmann had been wary of Brune’s ability to remain focused and in control, the larger man had performed admirably that day, serving as both spotter and bodyguard while Kurzmann hunted and killed targets of opportunity.

  The goal of the killings had been to keep the Tommies on edge and demoralized, a job that Kurzmann had been performing for years now. But beyond the killing and the psychological damage done to his enemies, there had been another goal, more strategic in nature - to keep the British looking outward, fearful of the long-distance shot that came without warning, their heads down and attention focused across the road, towards where all the shots had come from.

  And then, when Vogt had led the sortie to retrieve the mortar and its ammunition, and all the Tommies’ attention was focused on that section of the road, Kurzmann and Brune had slowly, carefully, crawled across the road much further to the north, slithering across on their bellies a few centimetres at a time, until they negotiated the ditch on the western side of the road and squirmed through the underbrush, and behind enemy lines.

  From there, over the course of several hours, they had made their way further and further back, watching and waiting, finding just the right position from which they could strike once again, when their reinforcements arrived and commanded the attention of the Tommies. At that point, when the British turned their backs to the sea and engaged the forces to their front, Kurzmann and Brune would strike from behind.

  Kurzmann and Brune lay within a small cluster of bushes, perhaps fifty metres from what Kurzmann surmised was the Tommies’ command element. They’d listened to the distant sounds of approaching panzers for some time, and Kurzmann assumed that their relief column had finally arrived. He and Brune had shared a look of victory until, back along the road to the north-east, there came the sounds of explosions and gunfire. Moments later, several larger explosions and even more gunfire reached their ears, the sounds of a firefight engaged with mostly machine pistols and rifle fire, with the sounds of grenades punctuating the fight.