Over seven hundred volunteered.
When Lance Corporal White’s coded transmission came in over the wireless, the three “Longbow” pilots on-station consulted their maps of Merlimont and the surrounding area and determined the necessary heading. Pushing their engine’s throttle to the wall, each of the three Spitfire pilots dropped their aircraft down to less than a hundred feet off the water and hurtled across the Channel, crossing the water at a speed of over six miles a minute. Each fighter plane carried a full ammunition load for their two 20mm cannons and four .303 calibre machine guns. Although the Spitfire could carry bombs, they were not considered because of the reduction in speed, maneuverability, and range the extra five hundred pounds would impose.
They spotted the Stuka flight within minutes. Preoccupied with gaining altitude quickly after dropping ordnance and keeping their flight over the target area, the German pilots paid no attention at all to the skies around them. The Stuka’s tail-gunners, on the other hand, were normally tasked with watching for enemy fighters and had little else to occupy their attention. However, this mission was a quick bombing and strafing run against a French partisan hideout, so what was there to fear? British air power was saved for defending their home islands and launching massed bombing raids against strategic targets deep behind enemy lines. No one would send Allied fighters to defend French peasants from German bombs, would they?
Perhaps not, but defending British Commandos was, apparently, another matter entirely. The first Spitfire was spotted by a tail-gunner for a brief moment before his plane turned and took the glimpsed apparition out of the gunner’s field of view. Confused as to what he saw, the tail-gunner asked his pilot how many other Stukas were assigned to the attack against the French. The pilot, confused about the question, turned his head and looked over his shoulder to ask the gunner what he was talking about.
That was the moment when he died.
At a distance of roughly one thousand feet the lead Spitfire, risking a climbing attack rather than coming in over occupied territory at a normal dogfighting altitude, raked the trailing Stuka from tail to propeller with a dozen 20mm cannon shells and over two hundred .303 calibre slugs. The German dive bomber simply ceased to be. The wings and fuselage came apart in a spray of bullet-torn metal, burning fuel, and fluttering ammunition belts. The canopy disintegrated an instant before both the pilot and tail gunner were chopped to pieces by cannon shells and tenderized by machine-gun bullets. Their corpses fell to the ground as little more than bloody tatters of flesh wrapped in grey fabric and parachute silk.
The lead Spitfire, after making its kill, climbed up and over the tumbling corpse of the Stuka and closed in on the remaining two dive-bombers. The tail-gunners in both planes had seen the death of their comrade, and with frantic shouts to the pilots calling for evasive maneuvers, the two tail-gunners racked the bolts on their machine guns and prepared to defend themselves. Arcs of tracer fire streamed from behind the canopies of both Stukas, searching for the British fighter planes, but to no avail; the Spitfire aces were too fast and too nimble to fall for such desperate tactics. The lead fighter continued through the Stuka formation, blazing away with cannons and machine guns, while the two other Spitfires broke off, one cutting left and the other right in order to herd the Germans back into the lead fighter’s guns in the event that the two planes broke and ran.
Unfortunately for the Germans, that is exactly what they did. Each pilot broke in a different direction, the two planes splitting off in the hopes of forcing the attacking Spitfire to pick one target or the other. As each Stuka banked and came about, the pilots saw the flanking Spitfires closing, their weapons sending streams of tracer lashing through the air. Like a Spanish vaquero cracking his whip to redirect wayward cattle, the Spitfires drove the Stukas back and brought their formation together again, pinning the two remaining dive bombers in a three-way crossfire. Cannons roared, machine guns chattered, and the two German aircraft fell out of the air. One plummeted to earth trailing smoke and shedding parts, while the other simply exploded in a fireball of detonating ammunition and aviation fuel.
Just like that, the mission was over. From the time the Spitfires left the Channel behind them and flew over the beaches of occupied France until the last Stuka dropped from the sky, less than three minutes had elapsed. After making their kills, the three planes dropped down low over the forest treetops, all the better to avoid detection by the crude but ever-vigilant German radar systems. But just before departing, the Spitfires made a victory pass over their brothers in arms on the ground, wings waggling in salute. Within two more minutes, the fighters would be back over the Channel, roaring through the skies at full throttle and heading home to England.
22
Both Commandos and partisans cheered as the smoking debris from destroyed Stukas tumbled down around them. Lynch crossed his fingers, hoping that no one was struck and killed by an aircraft fragment. He knew several men had been killed last May by debris falling from the sky, and it was a cruel twist of fate when a comrade was killed by the enemy after the enemy was killed. There were no injuries this time, and only a few close calls during the dogfight as spent Spitfire cannon casings, each as long as Lynch’s hand, rained down through the forest canopy along with the far more numerous machine gun brass.
Gritting his teeth and steeling his stomach, Lynch joined Hall as he walked through the cratered encampment, aiding in the search for dead and wounded partisans and Commandos. He was relieved to see that the damage wasn’t as bad as he originally expected, at least until he found the point where the creek bed had been bombed. The carnage was so complete, a casualty figure for the bomb’s blast was only agreed upon after a head count and a few minutes of debate amongst the partisans.
Once the dead were buried and the wounded tended to, the Commandos and partisans began to pull themselves back together again in order to prepare for the inevitable ground attack. Leaving Hall with the wounded, Lynch went to go find Bowen, but as he turned, he nearly knocked over Marie, the young French woman he’d rescued. She was cleaned up and wearing a set of hunting clothes, a scarf tied around her head like some kind of French pirate maiden. A MAS-36 rifle hung from her shoulder, and she wore a cartridge belt around her waist.
“Hello, monsieur,” she said to Lynch.
“Well hello miss! You’re looking much better. I see you’re kitted right proper for killing Germans today,” Lynch replied.
Marie looked confused. “I’m sorry, my English...not so good. Yes, I hope to kill Germans today.”
Lynch smiled. “Miss, your English is much better than my French.” He gestured towards her rifle. “Do you know how to use that?” he asked.
Marie nodded. Unslinging the rifle, she tucked the buttstock into her shoulder, pointed the muzzle at the ground, and then unlocked the bolt and drew it back far enough to show there was a cartridge in the chamber. Then, she locked the bolt forward again.
Lynch nodded, smiling. “There you go, miss. Simple as a biscuit. Line up the Boche and knock them down.”
Marie smiled and began to blush. A right fine young lady, she is. Lynch mused.
A sudden thought occurred to him. “You say you’ll be part of the fighting today?” he asked.
Marie nodded. “I...ah, we with the rifles, we stay in the trees, shoot at the camions.”
Lynch frowned. “At the wha, oh, you mean the lorries?” He mimed turning a large steering wheel back and forth.
Marie laughed. “Oui. Shooting at the ‘lorries’, yes.”
Lynch considered this for a moment, then dug into the pocket of his battle dress and pulled out his Colt automatic. Holding it up for her to see, he gestured to his eyes, then hers.
“Watch me please, miss,” he said.
Lynch drew back the slide, showing Marie the empty chamber, a cartridge waiting in the magazine. He let the slide snap home again. Putting his thumb on the safety, he set it to ‘safe’.
“This is safe. The gun will not fire,” he said
, then flicked the safety to ‘fire’. “Now it is ready to shoot. Do you understand?”
Marie looked at Lynch, puzzled. “Oui, je comprends, I understand. But why?”
Lynch safed the pistol again, then handed it to Marie, butt first. “I want you to carry this, for protection. You may not have time to reload your rifle.”
Marie shook her head and tried to push the pistol back towards Lynch, but he insisted. Finally, she sighed and nodded, taking the pistol and dropping it into one of the voluminous pockets of her coat.
“Merci beaucoup. I will return after we fight the Germans.”
Tommy shrugged and smiled. “Sure. Now, go on with you, we’ve got a battle to win.”
Marie walked away to join the other rifle-carrying partisans, giving Lynch a brief glance and a smile over her shoulder. Lynch noticed Bowen walking over and nodded to the sniper, ignoring the Welshman’s raised eyebrow.
“That was a lucky bit of business, eh?” Lynch said. “Spitfires out of the blue? Bet those Stuka pilots weren’t expecting that.”
Bowen glanced over at Marie, then looked back to Lynch and shrugged. “Lucky yes, except for the Frenchies in that creek bed.”
“Still could have been a lot nastier. This assignment is beginning to look rather gruesome, and it’s not even afternoon tea time. We’re going to be up to our armpits with Boche soon,” Lynch replied.
“I’m beginning to think that was the point,” Bowen muttered.
“What do you mean?”
Bowen took Lynch by the arm and led him a few paces away from the nearest Frenchmen. “Don’t you think it was just a wee bit convenient that the Frogs showed up and cleaned up the Huns just as we were getting ready to make a run for it? I think we were staked out as tiger-bait, a goat on a tether for Jerry.”
Lynch gave the sniper a sharp look. “That’s hardly a sound method for forming strong ties with your allies. Do you really think they planned such grim business?”
Bowen nodded. “That Bouchard chap is a grim sort of fellow. I think we were the perfect bait to lure in the Germans, and he knew we’d be savvy enough to hold our own and thin out the enemy before they stepped in to clean up the mess.”
“And if we didn’t survive?” Lynch asked.
Bowen tugged on the brim of his beret. “Such is often the fate of those who serve for king and country, boyo.”
Lynch’s expression grew somber. “I don’t like being used as bait. I think we need to talk to Price.”
“About what? This is our duty. We’re here to fight with the partisans and that’s what we’re doing.”
“But if we’re just being used, we’re not fighting with them, we’re fighting for them, and that’s not cricket. If I’m to be someone’s cannon fodder, that someone should be Churchill or Colonel Durnford-Slater, not a school teacher with a grudge.”
Bowen frowned, but eventually nodded. “All right, we talk to the lieutenant. It appears that Bouchard is off with his own people now anyway.”
The meeting between the Commando leader and his French counterpart had just ended. Bouchard and several of his men walked off calling to other partisans, while Price and McTeague were now turning to find their men.
“Ah, boys, we were just going to look for you,” Price said.
Lynch looked at Bowen, who nodded. “Sir, we feel as though the Frogs set us up at the barn, and we don’t appreciate being used as bait to lure in the Jerries just so these fellows can clean up after,” Lynch declared.
McTeague glared at the two corporals. “What’s all this then? Blubbering in the ranks? Lot o’ bellyaching if you ask me.”
Price raised his hand to halt McTeague’s tirade for a moment. “Gentlemen, what is your point?”
The two corporals looked at each other for a moment. “Lieutenant, I don’t think it is advisable that we continue to work with the partisans if we’re to be treated as cannon fodder,” Bowen stated.
Price’s expression darkened. “Corporal Bowen, when I need your advice, I will seek it from you. In the meantime, you need to prepare yourself for battle. The Germans will be here within minutes, and we’ll need to engage them briskly if we aren’t to be overrun.”
It was Lynch’s turn to speak up. “But sir, that’s just it. This whole show was a mug’s game from the very start. Twelve of us against the German garrison? A bit of cheese in a trap waiting for the mouse’s teeth, more likely. We’ve no idea what is rolling down the road towards us. The Boche might have put together a whole battalion to snuff us out.”
Price’s expression turned furious. The lieutenant stepped up and poked a finger into Lynch’s chest. “Corporal, keep your bloody cowardice to yourself. Bad for morale in the ranks.”
It was Lynch’s turn to become enraged. He stepped forward, driving Price back half a step and eliciting a warning growl from McTeague. “How dare you, Lieutenant? Bowen, Nelson and I took those goddamn frogs into town and pulled that girl out on the heels of a whole company while the rest of you played at caravan. I’ve put my neck on the block for your good King George aplenty and I’ve got a bloody medal to prove it. But if we drown in German steel here, all we’ve accomplished is knocking off a few dozen Jerries and saving one girl, who’ll probably end up on the point of a bayonet herself before the day’s out.”
Price’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head, and Lynch barely noticed the Lieutenant’s hand dropping to the flap of his revolver holster. But it was McTeague who stepped between the two men, putting his hand over Price’s and most of the holster, the Scotsman’s enormous hand covering his commanding officer’s like an oven mitt.
“Listen ‘ere, lad,” McTeague growled. “None of us are foolin’ ourselves that we’re not in a tight scrap. But we and the froggies are in this together. Better tae be pipped standing side by side with these brave souls, than tae break an’ run and leave the poor bloody fools to their deaths at the hands of the Boche. Ye aren’t just a Commando, not just a soldier fightin’ for good King George, ye stand for all the free people in the world, y’hear? Turn away now, and that mad bastard in Berlin takes another step closer to winnin’ the world.”
“Then what about the Frenchman?” Bowen asked. “What about Bouchard? He’s got an agenda, he does. And I don’t think our well-being is anywhere on it.”
Price looked from Lynch to Bowen, then glanced at McTeague. “Gentlemen, you leave the ‘Butcher of Calais’ to us. Right now, occupy yourselves with the task of killing Germans.”
Lynch looked at Bowen, who nodded sheepishly. Lynch himself felt rather foolish. Price was well within his rights to shoot the two of them for gross insubordination. The two men straightened themselves up and gave Price sharp salutes.
“We’ll stack the Jerries up like firewood, sir,” Lynch said.
Price returned the salute. “I know you will, Tommy. That’s why they sent you to me. Now get going.”
The two corporals walked away. McTeague turned to Price. “Sharp lads. Do ye think they’re right about the Frenchie?”
“Without a doubt,” Price answered. “Before, I would say our usefulness to Bouchard was in our capacity to kill Germans. But there’s something else behind this cheap bit of theatre.”
“What do ye mean?” asked McTeague.
“The lads are right, I think we were bait dangling for a set of jaws. But now I’m beginning to wonder if that scrap at the barn wasn’t just the first jig of the lure. Bouchard isn’t from here, he’s from Calais. I think he’s trying to catch a much bigger prize than this degenerate captain, and he needed something shiny to dangle in the water.”
“So what do we do?”
“My good fellow, we can only fish or cut bait, and I am still quite the sportsman. See to the Jerry machine guns, and make sure the lads have enough grenades.”
“Aye, Lieutenant.”
23
Massacring the Germans required a simple plan. The British had the training and discipline required to execute an ambush on a moving column of troop transport
s, but there were only nine Commandos in fighting health, and this would require several times that number. Because of this, the partisans would be required to take part in the attack, but for all their fighting spirit and enthusiasm, Dougal McTeague feared they would break and run as soon as French blood began to soak the ground.
The French, as a race, were not a cowardly people; McTeague was smart enough to understand the partisans came from a long and proud line of warriors. But these were untrained troops without benefit of drill and standing orders, lacking the discipline necessary to keep fighting when friends and loved ones died at their feet. If their morale became unsteady, that lack of discipline would be the death of them all.
Dougal McTeague was the unwanted offspring of an Irish whore who’d found herself living in Glasgow. He had not the foggiest notion of who his father was. His dear mother, when not earning her tuppence, was usually too drunk on gin to provide a list of possible gentlemen who might have given her son his height, complexion, and unruly nest of ginger hair. McTeague eventually accepted this missing influence in his life, conjuring up an image of some barrel-chested Highlander who had treated his mother as well as could be, then went on his merry way to gain fame and fortune in some exotic foreign land, perhaps as a sailor or an adventurer.
This fantasy did not stop McTeague from living the hard life of a prostitute’s son. Growing up with back alleys for playgrounds and an education consisting mostly of a series of savage brawls, he killed his first man at the age of fifteen. The death had been unintentional; even as a young teenage boy McTeague was still as big as most full-grown men, with fists as hard as a bar top and a temper sharp as a broken bottle. But the man had not deserved to die, and the event forced McTeague to look at himself and see that, without a doubt, he would be dead in a gutter within a few years. Some fateful day, he would be the victim of a lucky knife thrust or an unseen pistol shot fired into his back by a coward carrying a grudge. His life needed to change, and for the better. His unknown father would not want such an ignominious end to befall his son.
Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I Page 12
