Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  The old Celtic gods must have heard, because a little sparkling comet arced into the air for several seconds before popping, a red starburst bathing the town in a bloody glow. Knowing the flare would draw the Germans to them like hounds to the scent of a hare, Lynch led the others into the back alley from whence they came, submachine gun at the ready. They ran for a several long seconds, each of them fervently hoping they wouldn’t stumble into any Germans coming from the other direction, and finally Lynch motioned for the two others to follow him as he ducked into the darkened recess of a back doorway.

  Catching his breath for a moment and wiping a sweaty palm against his trouser leg, Lynch turned to the girl and extended a hand in greeting. “Apologies for not introducing myself earlier, miss. I’m Corporal Thomas Lynch, of His Majesty’s Three Commando, at your service.”

  The girl hesitated for a moment and then, with a shy smile barely seen in the darkness, she reached out and shook Lynch’s hand.

  “Bonjour. Je suis Marie Coupé” she replied.

  “Pleased as punch to meet you, Miss Coupé. Let’s hope we manage to live past mere introductions.”

  For now Lynch knew they must wait and hide, and hope that Bowen and his French companion arrived in time, and in one piece. Because the Wehrmacht had awoken in Merlimont, and it was none too pleased.

  16

  Rhys Bowen came from a long line of riflemen. He had an ancestor who’d served in the 60th American Rifles Regiment during the War of 1812, and later came over to Europe to fight against Napoleon. The Baker rifle carried by that ancestor, one Gareth Bowen, sat above the mantle of the Bowen family home. Well over a hundred years old, it still fired true and Rhys’ father, Erwin, took it down and fired it once a year on the anniversary of Napoleon’s defeat.

  The Bowen family owned a modest sheep farm, but the family’s real heritage was in producing marksmen. Great-grandfather Brynn had fought in the Zulu wars, his son had fought in India, and a generation later Erwin Bowen had fought against the Germans as a British sniper skulking through the trenches of the Great War. Precision marksmanship was in his blood, and so it was only natural that when Rhys Bowen joined the Royal Welch Fusiliers, he was selected for duty as a military sniper.

  Sniping suited him perfectly. A quiet, thoughtful man, Bowen talked little but listened well, never ran his gob off at a superior, and maintained a neat, disciplined appearance. He earned his corporal’s rank surprisingly quickly, but it was not due to a brazen or boastful command of men, but rather the way in which he could keep other men calm and focused on the task at hand, rather than letting them spin themselves into a panic when things got bad and men tended to grow windy.

  That calm, a sniper’s greatest asset, was being sorely tested at the moment. Bowen knelt along the treeline outside of Merlimont, studying the dark shapes of the town’s houses and other buildings through the scope of his 1914 Enfield. Although it was not as advanced as an American Garand, and it lacked the magazine capacity of the SMLE or the firepower of a Thompson, Bowen wouldn’t trade his ‘14 for any other weapon in the world. In his hands, the Enfield was as familiar as a lover’s body, and the rifle responded to him as if it was a living thing, seeking to please him with every shot that struck true.

  Right now, his rifle contained six rounds of precision-loaded ammunition; the extra round was carefully loaded by holding the first five cartridges down with a thumb to prevent the bolt from trying to feed a second cartridge into the breech when it was closed. It was a slow and deliberate procedure, impossible to perform during combat, but Bowen preferred to have that extra bullet at the start a battle, just in case. Although he had plenty of ammunition in charging clips packed into his ammunition pouches, he also kept a number of rounds loose in his jacket pockets, where it was easy to reach, so he could top off his rifle with a spare cartridge or two in between shots.

  At that moment, Bowen had not taken any shots, but he knew that would change very shortly. As sneaky and as clever as his fellow Commandos were - Lynch more so than Nelson, he felt - too many variables offered a chance for disaster. When that time came, he only hoped that he would be quick enough, capable enough, and just plain lucky enough to come to the rescue, because he did not take friendships lightly, and he and Tommy Lynch had become good friends over the past week. Nelson was alright, a bit of a brute to be sure, but he never really said anything to Bowen. Like many line infantrymen, Nelson had an almost instinctive apprehension toward snipers, whom they often considered “killers” or “assassins” rather than honest, stand-up battlefield riflemen.

  No matter. Bowen would rather have a handful of sincere, solid friendships than a whole company of men who offered kind words and then doled out insults behind his back. A sniper’s life was generally one of solitude, spent mostly with rifle in hand and a trusted spotter nearby, and tonight even Trooper Lewis wasn’t here. Instead, Bowen had a Frenchman named Henri to keep him company. Henri was likable enough, a quiet fellow who apparently didn’t bathe much, but he had readily volunteered to send himself into the lion’s den and risk his life to rescue a girl he’d never even met. Although not very well trained and shockingly undisciplined, Bowen could not help but be amazed at the raw courage the French partisans displayed. He doubted even one in ten would survive until the end of the war, but they fought nonetheless.

  But while the bravery of the partisans was unquestioned, their motives with regard to the Commandos remained somewhat cloudy. Bowen had strong suspicions that there was more going on that night, when the Germans discovered the British in hiding, than the partisan leader Bouchard let on. Although the partisans had left more than an hour before the Germans arrived, after the Nazis attacked they were back at the farm and into the fight within a handful of minutes. It was always possible the partisans had simply camped for the night a short distance away, and had charged in at full tilt as soon as they heard the fighting. But some instinct, the cautious sixth sense possessed by the best marksmen, made Bowen think the British had served another purpose that night: bait.

  When the traitor Laurent was dragged from the German armoured car, Bowen had seen the expressions on many of the partisan’s faces, and almost without exception, they were shocked and dismayed by the discovery of a turncoat. But not Bouchard; the partisan leader had displayed only an indignant rage, a vengeful fury that reminded Bowen of the sort one might see exhibited by a man or woman who suspects their spouse of adultery, and finally catches them in bed with another lover. Bouchard had known, or at least suspected, that Laurent was a traitor, and he must have passed him information about the British and where they would be hidden tonight. Then Bouchard had his partisans camp a short distance from the farm, where they could “rescue” the Commandos with an assault from the flank.

  It had been a most cunning maneuver, allowing Bouchard to publicly damn a suspected traitor and, at the same time, ambush and wipe out a German force of considerable size. The partisans now possessed more than two dozen Mauser rifles, several machine guns and submachine guns, as well as plenty of grenades, ammunition, and even a German wireless set. But it had been at the cost of two Commandos, and the price could have been considerably higher, paid in both French and British blood. Bowen told himself that the time may come during this mission when he would have to see Bouchard’s bearded face ruined by a .303 calibre bullet, viewed through the telescopic lens of his darling Enfield.

  At the moment, the only thing he viewed through that lens was a night-shrouded French town. So when the first distant burst of submachine gun fire reached Bowen’s ears, his sniper’s calm was stretched even further, because he could see nothing and do nothing but wait and listen for the sound of a grenade or spy a flare lighting up the sky over Merlimont. Time passed, the firing waxed and waned, and Bowen could tell it was coming from two directions; over near the motor pool on the far side of town, and off to the right, where the town hall was located. The klaxon was especially irritating, and if he had been able to see the sirens himself, Bowen woul
d have risked exposing his position to the Germans just to silence the racket with a well-placed bullet or two.

  Irritation was quickly put to an end with the burst of a crimson flare over the rooftops, almost directly above where the town hall sat. At last, it was time to act. Bowen slipped his Enfield back into its leather carrying case, and then ran back through the woods to where he had parked the armoured car. Henri had been leaning against the car’s hull, chewing on an unlit match and cradling his submachine gun, but as soon as he heard Bowen running through the woods, Henri leaped into action, clambering over the hull and dropping into the machine gunner’s cupola, then taking Bowen’s rifle case as the sniper dropped into the driver’s seat. Henri even took the time to set it down carefully inside the crew compartment, in a spot where it wouldn’t be damaged by anyone climbing into the car.

  Glancing back to make sure his rifle was, indeed, properly secured, Bowen thumbed the car’s starter. As the engine rumbled to life, he closed and dogged shut the driver’s hatch, ready to go to battle against the Germans, peering through the vision slit of a captured German car, rather than his rifle’s optics.

  Such were the strange fortunes of war, Bowen mused, from sniper to chauffeur, all in the same night.

  17

  Lynch pulled the pin from his last Mills Bomb and flung it towards the advancing squad of Germans. The soldiers threw themselves out of the way, but some were not fast enough. Two men screamed and fell writhing to the ground, legs and bellies shredded by grenade fragments. Chenot leaned around the corner of the building, his MP-38 spitting fire, and two more Germans tumbled to the ground, both perforated by slugs through their chests.

  Although it had taken a few minutes, the Germans had figured out that there were not one, but two small raiding parties running rampant through Merlimont. Building by building, alleyway by alleyway, first individual Germans, then small teams, and now squads of grey-clad soldiers stalked the trio as they scrambled from one hiding place to another. So far, Lynch had burned through six of his nine Thompson magazines, and both Chenot and Marie were running dangerously low on ammunition. The Frenchman had slung a captured Mauser over his shoulder, to use when - not if - he ran out of bullets for his submachine gun. Twice, Lynch had resorted to using his revolver to take carefully-aimed shots at the Germans, saving the Thompson for when he could catch the enemy bunched up and exposed.

  The remainder of the German squad began firing back from cover, 7.92mm spitzer bullets tearing chunks of brick and wood out of the buildings. Trapped in a short alleyway, their only escape route would be to flee into one of the main streets, and at that point, they would be as good as dead. Lynch looked at Chenot, and then to the girl, his eyes conveying a terrible meaning as his hand touched the revolver at his belt. Chenot nodded his understanding. Better to give her the mercy of a bullet, Lynch thought, then to let her fall into the hands of the Nazis again.

  There was another flurry of rifle shots, and with a shouted command, half a dozen men broke from cover and charged, bayonets gleaming at the end of their Mausers. Lynch levelled his Thompson and emptied his twenty-round magazine into the men. Four tumbled into the dirt, but two men survived the fusillade unscathed. Lynch brought up his weapon and blocked the thrust of a bayonet inches from his throat, then brought the butt of his Thompson around in an attempt to bash the German in the temple. The soldier ducked back and tried to slash at Lynch with the bayonet, but Lynch dropped his submachine gun, grabbed the forestock of the Mauser with one hand, and drew his revolver with the other. He brought the muzzle of his Enfield up under the German’s chin and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash was visible in the man’s open mouth, and the .38 calibre slug erupted from the top of the German’s skull. With a convulsive twitch, the corpse slumped to the ground.

  Lynch turned to Chenot, who was wrestling with the other soldier, the man pressing his bayonet a hairsbreadth from the Frenchman’s throat. Marie beat on the soldier’s arms with the butt of her MP-38, but to little effect. Lynch took a step and jabbed the revolver into the German’s ribs, pulling the trigger twice and blowing holes through the soldier’s heart and lungs. With a shudder, the German toppled away and died. Chenot stepped back and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Mon ami, that was close.”

  Before Lynch could reply, there was a shout from the other end of the alley. Turning, the three of them saw four more Germans come around the corner, one man carrying an electric torch, all of them carrying rifles. Lynch considered the pistol in his hand - only three shots remained. One to make them duck, then one for the girl, and one for the partisan. Then a prison camp for me, if they don’t just shoot me first.

  But before he could act, Lynch heard the roar of an engine, and a German armoured car screeched to a halt behind the Germans. Lynch could see the silhouette of a man standing in the cupola manning a machine gun.

  “Eviter!” A voice shouted in French from the car.

  Lynch threw himself at Chenot and the girl, knocking them down and out of the line of fire. With a deafening roar, the MG-34 fired upon the Germans at nearly point-blank range, the heavy slugs shredding all four men in a heartbeat. Sensing it was all over, Lynch peered up from the ground.

  “Crikey Bowen, cutting it damn close, aren’t you?”

  “C’mon Lynch, get in the bloody car!” the Welshman hollered from the driver’s seat.

  The three of them scrambled to their feet, gathering their weapons and running to the idling car. Henri ducked inside the hull and opened the passenger hatch, helping Marie climb into the vehicle. Chenot followed, and Lynch climbed in, maneuvering into the commander’s chair, grabbing a nearby MP-38 and checking the magazine. Standing up in the commander’s hatch, he thumped the hull over Bowen’s head.

  “Let’s go fetch Nelson!”

  The sniper gunned the engine and tore down the street. Henri swung the MG-34 from one side of the road to the other, searching for Germans. Buildings flashed past and Bowen pushed the car’s engine to the limits of its speed, and within seconds, they heard the sound of gunfire growing louder. Soon they saw searching torch beams flashing left and right, heard shouts in German. The motor pool was dead ahead, the dark hulks of German lorries briefly illuminated now and then by the soldiers hunting for their prey.

  Lynch turned to Henri and shouted. “Are you ready?”

  The Frenchman replied by testing the bolt of the machine gun and giving him a thumbs-up.

  Several Germans turned to the car and waved, calling it over. They couldn’t make out the silhouette of the two men standing in the hatches, and assumed they were part of the raiding party returning to Merlimont. A couple of the Germans hollered greetings, and more than one asked a question in German that Lynch didn’t understand, but assumed to be something along the lines of “How many British did you kill?”

  Most died never understanding who killed them. Henri swept a nearby search party with a withering fire, the foot-long tongue of flame spouting from the gun’s muzzle illuminating shocked expressions and pain-contorted faces. A few managed to turn and raise their weapons before being chopped into dying meat by the stream of slugs that ripped the men apart. In the first few seconds, the Germans were too surprised to do anything but stand and die. Sawing the machine gun back and forth, Henri burned through the MG’s ammunition in seconds, the bolt finally coming to rest on an empty chamber, the muzzle smoking.

  Then it was Lynch’s turn. As the car rumbled forward, he tucked the stock of the German submachine gun into his shoulder, peered down the barrel, and shot any man who showed himself. Keeping his bursts short and economical, Lynch cut down a half-dozen men even as some managed to return fire, spitzer bullets glancing off the armoured hull and whining away.

  “Nelson you bastard, where are you?” Lynch bellowed into the night. His MP-38 ran dry just as he heard Henri rake back the bolt of his reloaded machine gun.

  “Be careful!” Lynch shouted at the Frenchman. “Don’t shoot them by mistake!”

 
; The partisan nodded vigorously, swinging the muzzle of the gun from side to side, searching for targets. Lynch reached down into the crew compartment and Chenot handed him a fresh magazine.

  “We’re here, damn you, hang on!” Lynch turned and saw Nelson and his partner, hunched and running between two troop transports. Pierre was limping, but Nelson seemed all right. Lynch slapped the roof of the armoured car, and Chenot undogged the side hatch, swinging it open and offering a helping hand. Nelson reached the car first and helped Pierre climb in, the Frenchman’s hip gleaming with blood.

  No sooner had the partisan climbed inside and Nelson grabbed for the edge of the hatch, than several Germans ran around a nearby transport, one of them lifting his submachine gun and cutting loose with a long burst. Lynch saw Nelson shudder and collapse with an anguished cry.

  Sodding bastards! Lynch thought. He brought up his own reloaded submachine gun and emptied the thirty-two round magazine at the soldiers at the same moment Henri cut loose with his MG-34, dozens of bullets shredding the men into an almost unrecognizable mess of torn cloth and ruined flesh.

  Chenot hollered from inside the car. “He’s inside! Go go go!”

  Bowen gunned the engine and the armoured car tore off down the road. Henri fired bursts ahead of them, causing the occasional German soldier to leap out of the way or die in a hail of gunfire. They closed in on the end of town, and Lynch felt exhilarated, amazed they had survived and made good their escape.