Commando- The Complete World War II Action Collection Volume I

by Jack Badelaire

  The guard grunted in apparent agreement, and handed the papers back to Smythe, satisfied. “Na, hoffentlich können Sie etwas schlafen. Sie können gehen.” The guard waved towards another soldier standing by the gate with an MP-38 slung across his chest, and the man began to push the gate open.

  Smythe nodded and snapped a salute, his hand sticking out of the car. “Heil Hitler!”

  The guard saluted back. “Heil Hitler, und guten Morgen.”

  Lynch put the Kübelwagen in gear and passed through the checkpoint, glancing into the rearview mirror to make sure the rest of their convoy was following. Once they were moving at a normal speed down the road again, he glanced at Smythe.

  “Speak German like you’re one of them, so you do.”

  Smythe shrugged. “I spent a number of years there before the war. Got out just as everything was going to hell. Nothing encourages perfectionism like the threat of capture, torture, and execution.”

  “Aye, that would do it now,” Lynch replied.

  As the convoy began to enter the outskirts of Calais, Smythe mused upon his response to Lynch. While it was all true, what he hadn’t elaborated on was that he’d actually been hiding in plain sight, having enlisted with the SS in order to learn whatever he could of their plans and preparations. When Germany had finally declared war, Smythe had spent four months in Poland, unable to find a way to extricate himself from his cover without arousing suspicion. While he regretted many of the things he’d done during that time to maintain his cover, he took some comfort in the fact that he’d only exchanged fire with the Polish military. Smythe understood that sacrifices had to be made for the greater good of the Allied cause, but there was a line even he would not cross.

  When the time had come to invade France, Smythe had looked for a way to get back home. After the battle of Arras, when their division was closing in on the British Expeditionary Forces, Smythe had found an opportune moment. Slipping away from the rest of his unit, he’d switched uniforms with a dead Englishman, then carefully made his way towards Dunkirk. He managed to avoid being seen by the Germans he’d just abandoned, and escaped being shot by some nervous British sentry who didn’t immediately recognize him as a friendly. Eventually, he’d arrived back in England along with the rest of the evacuated soldiers, who thought him just another Tommy thankful to have escaped death or capture.

  Quite the adventure, really. Shame he couldn’t tell another soul about it.

  Rousing himself from his reverie, Smythe studied the ruined city of Calais as they began to enter its badly-battered heart. Several German divisions had laid siege to the city near the end of the campaign to take France, and there had been fierce artillery barrages and bombing sorties directed against it, in addition to bitter, brutal urban combat. Inevitably the Germans had taken the city, but their prize didn’t appear worth the effort after the pounding it had taken. Every other building had some kind of damage, whether structural or merely cosmetic, and some buildings, or even whole city blocks, were reduced to rubble. While in the intervening year the Germans had cleared much of the rubble from the streets and restored some sense of order, the city was still a shambles. A few slivers of light escaped from a badly-covered window here and there, but otherwise the city was blacked out, the only real illumination Smythe could see coming from his vehicle’s hooded lights.

  “We’re almost at the intersection,” Price said from the backseat.

  Lynch nodded and slowed the car, coming to a stop at a four-way intersection, next to a badly-damaged apartment building on their right. Smythe glanced over his shoulder and saw a trio of dark figures slip from the back of the first Blitz and duck into the narrow alleyway between the apartment building and the building behind it.

  “They’re clear,” he said.

  Lynch put the Kübelwagen back into gear again and kept driving.

  Smythe turned around in the seat. “All right gentlemen, get ready. Corporal Lynch and I will clear the entrance. Once we’re finished, we’ll give the other lads the signal to follow us in.”

  Price and Chenot nodded. Price lifted his Lanchester from the Kübelwagen’s floorboards and checked the seating of its fifty round magazine. Although a British weapon, the submachine gun was patterned on the German MP-28, and would pass a casual glance with its true identity undetected. Chenot brought with him the weapon he’d taken from the SS in the woods. It was an Erma MP-35, another well-made design from the interwar years, before the militarization of the German armed forces led to simpler, more easily-produced weapons like the MP-38 and -40.

  Within moments, the three vehicles approached the Hotel du Chevalier. Following the plan they’d devised, Lynch made a 180-degree turn just before the alleyway next to the hotel, pulling around and parking next to the curb facing back the way they’d came. The two Blitzes, on the other hand, drove up just past the alleyway, then backed in, as if preparing to unload.

  Inside the Kübelwagen, Smythe pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves, made sure his cap was on his head straight, then stepped out of the car. He unobtrusively tucked his Browning automatic into his belt at the small of his back, then slung his black leather case over his shoulder. A Luger was holstered on his right hip, and a black-hilted combat knife hung at his left. Lynch exited the vehicle with an MP-38 in hand, buckling on the two 3-magazine pouches. Chenot and Price climbed out of the Kübelwagen, and stood at the car’s fender, as if on guard. Price made eye contact with Lynch, “Good luck, Corporal.”

  Lynch smirked and gave Price a spirited German salute. “Jawohl!” he whispered.

  Smythe rolled his eyes at the Irishman’s attempt at humor. “Komm jetzt mit mir!” he growled.

  Lynch gave the others one last nod, then turned and followed Smythe. The spy walked along the side of the alleyway between the Blitzes and the hotel. An electric torch beam was bobbing in the darkness, approaching the tailgate of the first vehicle. At the sound of approaching movement, the sentry carrying the torch brought it up and caught Smythe in its beam. Smythe held up a hand to shield his eyes, and waved the shipping manifest in his other hand.

  “Halten Sie die Lampe wo anders hin!” he snapped.

  The sentry lowered the torch until the beam reflected off the cobblestones of the alleyway, the stone gleaming from the night’s condensation. Smythe saw there were two men in front of him, one with the torch, a MP-40 slung across his chest, another carrying a rifle in his hands. Both were SS, and they appeared suspicious and annoyed by this early morning delivery.

  “Für heute morgen ist keine Lieferung geplant!” the sentry barked.

  Smythe shrugged, perfectly mimicking the timeless gesture of a soldier who knows something’s awry, but can’t help but do what he’s told.

  “Das sind meine Bestellungen. Schauen Sie sich die Papiere an.” Smythe held out the folded document, and gave it a bit of a shake, so the sheets unfolded in front of the sentry’s face.

  As Smythe distracted the sentry with the torch, Lynch stepped up to the other guard, while holding an unlit cigarette in his fingers. He made a gesture with it, as if wordlessly asking if the man could provide a light. The guard shrugged, and took his hand away from his Mauser’s trigger, reaching up towards his coat pocket.

  Smythe saw Lynch get the other German’s attention as the first sentry brought up his torch, shining the light on the document in Smythe’s hand. So focused was the sentry on the paper in Smythe’s left hand, and so blinded by the torch’s beam reflecting off the paper, he didn’t notice Smythe’s right hand reach back and pull the Browning from his belt. Letting out an obvious sigh of exasperation, Smythe raised the paper and shook it directly in the sentry’s face.

  “Können Sie nicht lesen?” he asked, a tone of annoyance in his voice.

  The sentry frowned and opened his mouth to reply, just as small, ragged hole appeared in the middle of the papers in Smythe’s hand. The sentry’s head snapped back from the shot, just as a second bullet tore through the pages and punched through the soft undersid
e of the German’s chin.

  The second sentry turned, confused at the shunt-shunt sound and the sudden motion of his companion. His eyes dropped to the electric torch as it struck the cobblestones with a clatter. The sentry felt the first surge of adrenaline hit his system as he instinctually knew something was wrong, but before he could act, he doubled over with a gasp as Lynch drove his Commando dagger to the hilt in the man’s heart. Lynch clamped a hand around the dying German’s throat, digging his fingers deep into the tender flesh and holding him fast. Lynch ripped his dagger free, only to plunge the blade home twice more as hard as he could.

  The silent killing was done in a matter of seconds. As soon as he was sure the two men were dead, Smythe glanced around, making sure no one was approaching them, then he pulled the magazine from his Browning and reloaded the weapon. Smythe then walked over to the closest idling Blitz and gave the tailgate three hard thumps. Almost immediately, the grinning face of Harry Nelson appeared over the tailgate.

  “Crikey, thought you selfish bastards were going to keep all the fun to yourselves.”

  Smythe pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Fear not, we’ve done little more than set the stage. More violence and mayhem awaits us yet.”

  “Bloody brilliant!” Nelson whispered, jumping down to the cobblestones, his Thompson in hand.

  Bloody is right, Smythe thought to himself. Bloody is certainly right.

  Chapter 9

  Outside The Hotel Du Chevalier

  0415 Hours

  Lynch walked to the mouth of the alleyway and motioned to Price and Chenot that all was clear. The two men joined him, and together they moved back into the alleyway where the rest of the Commando assault team was assembling. One man was left behind with each of the Blitzes, the drivers wearing a German army jacket and headgear, enough to pass a quick glance up into the cab from someone on foot.

  The remaining men prepared to enter the Hotel du Chevalier: Smythe, Lynch, Price, Chenot, Nelson, and Hall, the Commando’s medic. There was no telling what the Germans had done to Bouchard, or what condition he might be in when they found him, so it was up to Hall to determine the partisan leader’s health and whether it was even possible to subject him to the rigors of their escape and the journey out of France and across the channel back to England. The mission would be a wash if they went through all the effort of getting Bouchard out, only to have him die from the exertion of escape.

  Looking around, Lynch noticed that Nelson and Hall were the only men who wore their standard Commando kit. Everyone else retained their Wehrmacht disguises. Lynch was uncomfortable in the German uniform, not only because of what it represented, but because it was not in his nature to be so duplicitous. Camouflage, feints, and misdirection were all weapons in a warrior’s arsenal, but this kind of trickery made him uneasy. Nevertheless, if it gave them an edge in this operation, uneasy or not, Lynch would do what was asked of him.

  The five men formed up on Smythe outside the alleyway entrance. It was a large, heavy wooden door, wider than a typical doorway to allow ease of access when delivering foodstuffs or other supplies.

  Smythe turned to them. “As quietly as possible, and let me lead on. No firing unless we’ve been rumbled, and they can’t be silenced first. Once I get you chaps to Bouchard, however, you’re on your own. I’ll have to disappear in order to carry out the rest of my mission.”

  Price nodded at Smythe’s last comment. “We understand, Mister Smythe. Thank you for volunteering to help us.”

  “Oi, on with it now,” Nelson muttered. “Daylight’s on its way.”

  Smythe gave the Commando a smile. Drawing back the slide of his Browning for a final brass-check, he readied the pistol, then pulled open the door and slipped inside. The five other men flowed through the entrance behind him, Lynch and Price first, then Chenot. The Frenchman was followed by Hall, pistol in hand, his rifle hanging from one shoulder, his medical kit slung over the other. Nelson brought up the rear, his Thompson moving from side to side, covering everywhere he looked.

  They found themselves in a large storage room, the only illumination a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. Crates and barrels stood around them, and there were hand carts and dollies leaning against the walls. Smythe moved up to the door at the other end of the room and put his ear against the wood, listening for a moment.

  “I don’t hear anything. Let’s go,” he said.

  Lynch opened the door for Smythe and the spy stepped through. Lynch followed, the MP-38 in his hands, bolt back, ready to fire. They’d emerged at the end of a short darkened hallway, with another hallway cutting across it a few yards away. The men moved down the hall towards the intersection, their steps slow and deliberate.

  Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps coming towards them from the left, and the men froze. One SS soldier walked past, unarmed and only in his trousers and undershirt, braces hanging at his sides, a tin mug in one hand and a slice of bread in the other. The man passed their hallway without a glance and continued on, and the men relaxed, taking another couple of steps forward just as a second German stepped out of the other hallway and turned in towards them. The man was fully dressed, wearing his helmet and carrying his rifle slung over his shoulder.

  Smythe didn’t hesitate for a moment. Holding his Browning in both hands, he fired two rapid shots into the German’s chest from five feet away. The man staggered and bumped hard against the wall, trying to unsling his rifle. Smythe shot him a third time, the bullet punching a hole over the German’s left eye. The bullet made a ping sound as it was stopped by the inside of the man’s helmet, and the soldier collapsed, the butt of his rifle striking the wooden floor with a hard thump.

  “Alles in Ordnung, Heinrich?” a voice called from the other hallway.

  It was the other German, the man who’d passed them by. Smythe pressed himself against the right-hand side of the wall, and the rest of them followed suit. There were quick footsteps, and the German came around the corner, taking a bite out of his breakfast.

  With surprising speed and smoothness, Smythe reached out and put a hand under the German’s tin mug just as he slipped the suppressor under the man’s chin and pulled the trigger twice. The muffled shots belied the violent eruption of blood and bone from the top of the man’s head, and he fell in a ragged heap at Smythe’s feet. The spy was left holding his smoking pistol in one hand, a mug of hot coffee in the other. Leading with his pistol, he leaned his head out into the hallway and glanced both ways, before stepping back into the shadows.

  “Drag the bodies away and into the other room, please,” he asked.

  Chenot and Hall stepped forward to deal with the bodies. Smythe sniffed the hot coffee, and took a sip.

  “Not bad, actually,” he said.

  Nelson stepped up and looked down at the slice of thick black bread lying on the wooden floor. A smear of blood left by a dragged body missed it by several inches. Nelson reached down and took it from the floor.

  “Well, what do you know, butter side up. Must be my lucky day.” He took a big bite and chewed, grinning.

  Price grimaced and looked to Smythe. “We need to keep moving.”

  Smythe nodded as he reloaded his pistol again. “If what Édouard told us is true, the kitchen is off to our left, but down the hallway to our right, there’s another turn to the left, and a staircase leading up to the second floor. That’s where they’re keeping Bouchard. Are we ready?”

  Everyone nodded. Nelson took a final bite before looking unhappily at the slice of bread in his hand. Finally, he shrugged and shoved the slice into his shirt pocket. Lynch shook his head at his friend, and Nelson shrugged.

  “Bloody good bread. Not going to waste it.”

  The five men followed Smythe out of the hallway, turning right and moving smoothly and quietly. Lynch and Price had changed their footwear before entering the hotel, exchanging the hobnailed German combat boots for their soft-soled Commando boots, footwear designed to help with a quiet tread. Lynch looked
down for a moment at Smythe’s feet; although the man wore German boots, he made less sound than the Commandos.

  The six men rounded the corner and moved up the staircase, Smythe leading with his pistol raised, Nelson trailing with his Thompson leveled down the stairs, ready to plug anyone who discovered them, and damn the noise. They moved more quickly than might be expected, sacrificing some quiet for speed, knowing that if they were trapped in the stairwell it would end badly for all of them. Finally they made it to the landing, and Smythe took a moment to peer through the keyhole.

  “Hallway is clear,” he said, looking back at the others. “At the intersection, only those of us in German uniform will approach the door. The other two men will guard this staircase and the hallway. If there’s a time for this to fall apart, it’ll be now.”

  Price and the other men nodded. Smythe opened the door and stepped out, motioning for the others to fall in. Price, Lynch, and Chenot followed him, all four of them standing up straight and walking with assured authority as they rounded the corner of the hallway. Lynch glanced at Smythe’s right hand, and noticed he was keeping his arm close against his body, holding his pistol by the end of the suppressor, the rest of the gun tucked back along his forearm, hidden from view.

  At the end of the hall, two SS stood guard on either side of a door. Both men held machine pistols, and they immediately frowned with alarm, seeing what appeared to be four Wehrmacht soldiers suddenly approaching them.

  Before the men could say anything, Smythe held up a folded piece of paper in his hand, careful to hide the bullet holes and faint spatter of blood.

  “Ich habe den Befehl, den Gefangener zu überführen,” he said.

  “Wir sind davon nicht informiert worden!” One of the guards said, stepping forward with a hand raised to take the papers.

  Smythe closed the distance with several purposeful strides, and as the German reached for the document in his hand, Lynch saw Smythe tuck his right hand behind his leg, letting the pistol slip through his fingers until he caught it by the grip, ready to fire. In one smooth motion, Smythe brought up the Browning, pressed the muzzle of the suppressor against the base of the German’s throat, and fired twice. The guard let out a gurgle and dropped, clearing the way for Smythe to raise the pistol and point it at the second guard, who was gaping at the death of his comrade, his hand dropping to the grip of his machine pistol.